


Blackwater

by gaslight



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Arthur Has Many Friends, Ballroom Dancing, Bisexuality, Bottom Arthur Morgan, Detective Noir, Disaster Boahs Bicker Their Way Into a Relationship, Dutch vs Hosea, Emotional Baggage, Flashbacks, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Homme Fatale, Humor, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Like Excessive Flirting--Someone Needs to Stop John Seriously, M/M, Murder Mystery, Old Hollywood-Inspired Banter, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Private Investigators, Prohibition, Smut, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Top Arthur Morgan, Unresolved WWI Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-30 16:03:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 120,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20099890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaslight/pseuds/gaslight
Summary: John Marston hires Arthur Morgan, a private detective, to look into the death of Heidi McCourt, a friend who he suspects was the victim of foul play rather than suicide. His investigation leads them into the middle of an escalating war between two powerful gangsters fighting for control over West Elizabeth’s bootlegging industry—both of which Arthur has unpleasant and unfinished history with.Ch 24: A discovery by John sheds light on Dutch's financial situation, resulting in a series of revelations and new leads for Arthur to pursue. Meanwhile a pair of troubling phone calls leave him unsettled.





	1. The Gilded City

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my love for classic film is this Red Dead-flavored take on the detective/noir genre. Turns out 19th century outlaws fit into the world of prohibition-era gangsters pretty easily. Noir tropes, themes, and character archetypes will be heavily featured. Changes made to certain characters are intentional and will make sense by the end. I provide links for those who want to learn more about the historical references that pop up, but I'm always happy to answer questions (about the era or the story) if you have any.
> 
> My goal is to divide the story evenly between the murder mystery, gang war, and the romance while packing in a fair amount of humor and action to balance out the darker/more violent aspects.
> 
> I hope you will enjoy it! :)

\-- July 1931 --

Cities always looked better in his rear-view mirror; growing smaller and smaller on the horizon until they were lost from his line of sight. As they should be.

Arthur hated Blackwater. Its high buildings that shot out of the earth and concealed the beauty of the sky. The way its hoards of unemployed searched for work that wasn’t there while the rich strolled by indifferent to the plight of their fellow man. How like a disease it was continuing to spread, killing the rolling plains one house at a time. Most of all he hated how after five years of living there, the city had seeped into his skin and was every bit a part of Arthur as the scars on his face or the blood on his hands that no amount of water could wash away.

He pressed the gas pedal harder. Tall grass and roaming horses flashed by as the wind whipped around them. Albert’s straw hat was nearly a casualty of Arthur’s desperation to put some much needed distance between himself and the city, but his hands flew up in time.

“I understand you’re upset but if you’re going to drive like a mad man, pull over and I’ll hop out. There are cougars lurking about, but those majestic creatures are endangered so quite frankly my chance of survival on foot is arguably higher than with you behind the wheel.”

“Sorry, Al, it’s just—” Arthur broke off and slowed down the car.

“I could help you more if you’d just talk to me and explain why the devil—”

“Nothin’ to talk ‘bout. Just need some time away, is all.”

“Oh really? The bruises all over your face and hands. Your broken nose. That bullet wound near your shoulder that you are trying but failing to conceal. None of these are topics worthy of conversation?”

As much as he cherished Albert, sometimes he wished the man wasn’t so skilled at cutting through his bullshit. This is what happens when you make friends with journalists. Can’t leave shit be.

“Albert—”

“Let’s not forget the fact that you showed up at my apartment after hours just dying to explore the great outdoors. I enjoy spontaneity as much as the next fellow and share your love of leaving city life behind to bask in the countryside, but really, this is a bit much. Where are we even going?”

“Al—”

“Thank heavens I was home. Given the state you’re in, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had just stolen my car and vanished forever into the ether.”

“Hey, now. I’d never do that. I’d at least leave a note.” Albert gave him a flat look that returned Arthur’s eyes to the dirt road ahead. “Look, I appreciate your concern but you can’t help me with this. Talkin’ won’t fix nothin’ and if I’m being honest, you’re far more involved than I like.”

“You never struck me as the sort to run away from your problems.”

The car was brought to a screeching halt that startled a hidden murder of crows, sending them flying and cawing into the night air. Arthur turned to him. “Now you listen, I ain’t running away. I just need a few days to sort things out.”

Time. Arthur just needed time. To think. To breathe. To forget. He was all washed up. Rung out and hung up to dry like some well-worn rag. What a fool he had been. All because he had been too close to see what lay before his eyes. Now everything was such a goddamn mess and Arthur could barely keep his head above the water. He slumped against the driver’s seat and dug around in his pocket for his cigarettes. A search undertaken in vain. He had already smoked through the whole pack.

While he was a fool, Arthur wasn’t stupid enough to sit there and curse the heavens that yet another misfortune had befallen him. He had walked right into this one. Eagerly.

There had been a woman. There was always a woman in these stories, wasn’t there? Not her fault though seeing as the poor girl was dead. Her murder had sparked this whole rotten affair. Some private detective he was. Hadn’t caught her killer yet and wasn’t even sure he still wanted to.

There had been a man too. If Arthur had known then what he knew now, he would have shot John Marston the moment he first laid eyes on that bastard. Would have saved himself a world of trouble.

Albert spoke up. “If you’re still in danger I beg you to reconsider this brief sojourn and—”

“And what? Contact the police? You know as well as I do the clubhouse is full of rats. They’re all in on it and the ones who ain’t will be killed if they don’t fall in line.”

“Then perhaps Mr. Matthews? You’re like a son to him. Surely he would protect you.”

“It’s not me that needs protectin’. It’s everyone else and from each other, no less. This war between Dutch and Hosea. It’s coming to an end and no one will leave unscathed. It’s gonna be a bloodbath.”

“What about John? Does he—”

The silence was instant. Albert subconsciously pressed his back against the door, trying to put some space between him and what Arthur knew was an enraged stare akin to those beastly predators his friend was usually so fond of. His fingers gripped the steering wheel, knuckles whitening and standing out among the purplish-blue bruises that marred his fingers. Bone-weary as a drifter walking for days without a lift, he rested his head between them. Albert placed a gentle hand on his broad back, as if Arthur was deserving of some sort of comfort.

He couldn’t think about John.

He just couldn’t.

Every time those brown eyes flashed through his mind, warm as the nights they had spent entwined, Arthur wanted to wrench open his skull and pluck out every last memory.

\-- March 1931 --

A cigarette lazily perched between his chapped lips threatened to fall as Arthur peeked through the blinds at the messy streets below. Spring was dead on arrival. Winter still clinging on through the slush on their boots, through the bitter wind that had collars pulled high and hats tipped low. The line for the soup kitchen was getting so long it damn near wrapped around the block. Poor bastards. Some of them hadn’t been employed in over a year. If Arthur had the money, he’d go out there and start handing out bills so they could buy a real meal but work had been frustratingly light as of late. It was the nature of the job. Can’t really pay to have mysteries solved or the unsuspecting spied on when most could barely keep their families fed.

“Sir, you can’t just go in there!” Tilly said in that no-nonsense tone that always came out whenever her feathers got ruffled. Her heels clicked against the floor as she came after him. “Who do you think you are? You need an appointment.”

He shot at wary glance at the tall figure who loomed by his doorway, obscured by the frosted glass, trying to figure out if God or Satan was about to dole him out a favor. Not that he believed in any of that, but if he did, Arthur would place his chips on the latter. Probably some filthy rich tycoon looking to get his dirty work done or perhaps a rich Nancy boy with daddy’s money looking to get out of a jam. Two types of men Arthur strongly disliked, but money was money no matter whose hands it came from. He was always hard-pressed to turn down a potential client no matter how foul. Unless the gentleman gave his girl lip. That was different. Then Arthur would toss his ass out in the cold if Tilly didn’t do it first. Arthur walked to the front of his desk and leaned against it, hands resting lightly on the mahogany wood behind him.

“This can’t wait,” a hoarse voice rasped. Christ, there was someone out there who apparently smoked more than Arthur did.

He came into the office with all of the arrogance of a man used to getting what he wants; stride steady and gaze narrowing as it locked on Arthur, as if he was expecting more. His half-assed attempt at slicking back his black hair meant some of it still fell limply over his eyes. Dark and beguiling, they had a spark to them not unlike gunfire at night. An expensive suit, charcoal and pinstripes, hugged his lean frame. Something was off though. Maybe it was the way the fabric was a bit tight around his broad shoulders or maybe it was the thin, angry scars that tore across his young face, but Arthur recognized a fellow imposter when he saw one. Both of them too raw for the finer things in life. No silver spoon ever graced that mouth. Must be new to his wealth. Self-made.

“S’alright, Miss Jackson,” Arthur said as Tilly followed the gentleman in, ready to drag him out by the ear. She was wearing that yellow dress he always liked, added a bit of sunshine to their admittedly somber office. “I’ll take it from here.”

“If you say so,” Tilly replied, shooting the man a look that could cut through steel before shutting the door behind her.

“You oughta give that girl a raise. Ain’t ever seen a secretary so ready to go to bat for her boss.”

“Miss Jackson is a fine woman and I don’t deserve her.” Arthur turned his head to blow out a stream of smoke. “You got a name?”

“John,” he replied firmly, fiddling with his dark gray fedora before extending his hand for a firm, brisk shake. “John Marston.”

“Well, Mr. Marston.” Arthur stubbed the cigarette out in his glass ash tray and gestured towards the chair before his desk. “Unless you’re always this impatient you must have quite the story to share.”

“Don’t beat around the bush much, do you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Ain’t sure where to start.” John sat down. “Hell, I don’t even know if I should be here.”

Arthur crossed his arms and stared down his nose at him. “How ‘bout you just start from the beginning and I’ll be the judge of that, hm?”

“You hear about the suicide aboard the Serendipity? During the New Year’s Eve party held there?”

Not only did he hear about but he knew the victim too. “Enlighten me.”

“Her name was Heidi McCourt. We were friends. I was at the party and ran into her not long before—” he broke off and sighed, “—before she shot herself in the head.”

“That’s bad business. Ain’t easy losing someone like that.”

“That’s the thing though. Miss McCourt wasn’t suicidal. At least from I could see. She was always so happy.”

“Sometimes the saddest people are the ones who always keep a smile on their face.”

John’s shoulders slouched as if the statement somehow punctured his body, deflating him like a balloon. He muttered in a bitter tone, “That’s true, I suppose.”

Hands balled into fists on his knees. Nostrils flared. Legs straight on the floor like he was ready to bounce up and leave. This was clearly hard for him but not because of the loss. John didn’t seem like someone who asked for help much not because he didn’t need it, but because he had long been forced to solve things on his own. Arthur knew anger. Knew it too well. But he prided himself on his self-control and no longer letting his baser instincts get the best of him. John didn’t seem like that though. He had a thinly-veiled rage about him, though what a successful and handsome businessman had to be mad about was anyone’s guess.

Hoping to settle his nerves, Arthur extended his cigarette case, engraved with a stag, towards John whose long fingers plucked one out. A slight nod of thanks accompanied the flash from his silver lighter. The tension coiled in his body seemed to unwind with every smoky exhale.

“She was tellin’ me all about this new acting gig she got. How she was finally gonna leave Blackwater. Don’t see why she’d kill herself when she had so much to look forward too.”

“If you suspect Miss McCourt was murdered, why you here and not the police?”

“I tried. Spoke with Detective Milton about it. He oversaw her case. Told me they found her alone in a locked room, gun still in hand, no signs of struggle. Claimed her diary detailed how devastated she was over her failed acting career.” John brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep pull, brows creasing in annoyance.

“Apparently that’s as good as a suicide note.”

“Apparently,” John snorted. “I tried pointing out that someone could’ve held the gun to her head, used a key to get in and out. The coroner said she shot herself at midnight, but she wasn’t discovered for hours. Anything could’ve happened! But Milton told me my time would be better spent with a shrink to deal with my _overwhelming_ _grief_. The prick.” Arthur grinned at that. No better word to describe Andrew Milton. John must have misinterpreted his response, for he bitterly added, “I’m not crazy though. I know there’s more to the story.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

John blinked. “You don’t?”

“Well, I don’t know you,” Arthur teased, “you could have a few loose screws. But I knew Miss McCourt. Met her out west when she was tryin’ to make it big in Hollywood. Ran into her a couple of times here. Like you, she never struck me as the suicidal type and I saw her at her worst. Failure inspired her, made her want to work harder. That whole devastated actress angle Milton threw at you is nonsense.”

“So you’ll look into it?”

“For a price.”

John immediately dug into his wallet, fat and full of bills that Arthur would very much like to get his hands on. Where’d all that money come from? Maybe he was a vulture; one of the select few who benefited from the stock market crash.

“This enough?” John placed a crisp twenty dollar bill in his hands. “If I’m wrong, then I’m wrong, but I just feel like I owe it to her, y’know? She was one of the few nice people in this shit stain of a town and her death has been buggin’ me for months.”

“Ain’t a fan of Milton nor Blackwater?” Arthur pocketed the bill. “It’s like you’re tryin’ to get me to like you, Mr. Marston.”

“Maybe I am.” John replied, sweeping a hand over his clean-shaven face. If Arthur didn’t know any better, he’d think it was an attempt to cover up a bit of color in his cheeks.

Tilly’s fingers tapping away at her typewriter and cars sloshing through the damp streets filled the sudden silence. ‘Arthur Morgan Private Investigator,’ emblazoned on the window cast a shadow over John as his attention drifted from the faded wallpaper, to the disarray of his desk, to the half empty decanter of whiskey on the windowsill. Everything and anything that wasn’t Arthur’s unwavering stare. It was a hard one to be subjected to and from an unpleasant face too. Worn with lines and nicks carved out of his skin like crevices in the earth. Always rough with stubble even though he just shaved, damn it. Arthur fit right in with the criminals he brought to justice. Fit in right along side them on death row too, if he was being honest. Making John uncomfortable wasn’t his intention. A by-product of being in his line of sight as he got caught up in his head thinking about where to start. Heidi’s family and friends, of course. The police file. Witnesses.

The body can speak louder than words though and Arthur knew how to listen.

“There something you’re not telling me?”

John kept his head down but his gaze flashed up and lips pulled back, baring his teeth. A come-hither look but one that was less like a flirtatious dame and more like a wolf beckoning his prey. “You’re good at reading people, ain’t you?”

“Have to be in my line of work.”

It took him a couple more drags before he growled, “If it turns out she was murdered, I don’t want the killer coming after me or anyone I care about. You better keep my name a secret.”

“Of course, Mr. Marston.” Arthur raised his hands as if he was trying to ease an ornery stallion. “What’s got you spooked?”

John grimaced at his word choice. “When I spoke with Miss McCourt on the ferry, there was this blond feller hanging ‘round her. She didn’t introduce us, but I swear I’ve seen him in the papers before. If it’s who I think it is, his name is Micah Bell and he’s—”

“A career criminal, yeah, I’ve heard of him.” Arthur scratched the back of his head. Last he heard Bell had been magically dismissed of charges regarding a triple homicide up in New Hanover. Not that he’d tell John that. He was right to be scared of him. “If my boyfriend was a thug like that, I don’t rightly blame Miss McCourt for withholdin’ introductions.”

That got a laugh out of John. Far more relaxed now that he knew his identity would remain a secret, his body grew less rigid, demeanor more playful. It was almost cute how he slipped an arm _just_ past Arthur’s wide frame to crush his cigarette in the ashtray, rather than ask him to fetch it.

Arthur tilted his head. “How’d a pretty boy like you get those scars?”

“Fell down some stairs,” John said without missing a beat.

“Fell down some—boy, I heard some shit lies in my day, but that?” Arthur cracked up, shaking his head. “These stairs jagged? Run down the side of a mountain?”

“We ain’t even on a first name basis and already you’re poking into my life.” He gave him the kind of smile that if Arthur had a daughter and John came to his doorstep looking for her, he’d greet him with a shotgun. All trouble and not worth any of it. “I’m not the mystery you’re being paid to solve.”

Arthur shrugged. “I’m always open to extra work.”

John bit his lip as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a small packet of matches. When he handed it over, his index finger stretched to brush Arthur’s ever so slightly. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in rebellion, not excitement. What the hell was he playing at?

“If you need to reach me, I’m the owner of Beecher’s Hope. The address and number are on there.”

“That fancy café? Didn’t take you for a coffee slinger.”

“We all gotta make a living somehow.” There was that smirk again. More of a slash than anything and hinted at another secret. John placed his hat back on his head. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Morgan. Let me know what you find out.”

After John strolled out as fast as he came in, Arthur poured himself a healthy shot of whiskey and returned to the window. The afternoon sunlight outlined the buildings blocking his view of the Upper Montana, gilding them and the rest of the city in gold. Pretty apt for, what did John call it? Oh yes, this shit stain of a town. Beautiful, but only on the outside. For a sweetheart like Heidi McCourt to be murdered here was more than plausible, though the act itself made little sense. Funny. Honest. The sort of woman who’d have your back if things went haywire. Pretty little thing too. How she hadn’t gotten snapped up by Hollywood, he’d never know—but then again, good looking dames were a dime a dozen out there. Crime doesn’t need logic though. If Heidi was murdered, Arthur would find out who did it and why.

“Don’t think you can hide in there!” Tilly called out. “Come on out and tell me what on earth he couldn’t wait to get you mixed up in.”

“Hell if I know,” Arthur muttered under his breath before throwing back the shot.


	2. Transparent as Gin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur enlists the help of two friends to find proof that Heidi McCourt was murdered. He contemplates whether he should be pursuing this case while visiting Heidi’s mother and especially after calling John.

Friends in the right places. That’s the real trick up every private detective’s sleeve. They’re lying if they say otherwise. Sure, having no qualms about wading into the depths of human depravity was useful. A willingness to get one’s hands dirty didn’t hurt neither. But nothing opened up the world quite like a web of contacts. Reporters. Cops. Criminals. Politicians. A spider like him could glide from one strand to another to get to what or who he needed. They always wanted something in return and Arthur was, generally speaking, willing to pay.

Then there was Albert Mason.

“I’m always willing to brave the dust-ridden trenches of our archival rooms for a dear friend, but the department really should consider tidying up back there.” Albert led Arthur through the Blackwater Ledger maze. Rows upon rows of cluttered desks, noisy typewriters, frazzled newshawks. Guess miracles do exist. That’s the only explanation for how any work got done here. “A man could suffocate!”

One would’ve thought they were a pair of beauties strutting up the street with the way they collected stares. It was to be expected. Arthur always looked one drink away from punching someone. Meanwhile the stress that wafted through the office like the smoke hanging above the newsroom seemed to bounce off Albert. Unwaveringly cheerful, he fit in here about as well as he did out in the wilderness. That suited Arthur just fine. They wouldn’t have become friends if Albert hadn’t managed to get himself chased up a tree by a camera-shy grizzly bear. Words may be his trade but wildlife photography was his passion.

“If you have things to do, don’t mind me.” Arthur said as they snuck into the blissfully empty office of a senior editor who was out pounding the pavement. “Don’t know how many times I’ve bothered you ‘bout a case.”

Albert set the old newspapers on the desk between them. “You’re never a bother, Arthur. You should know that by now.”

He should. It’s a hard thing to learn when one’s past was all tied up in strings attached.

“Frankly, it’s a relief to escape the drudgery of having to listen to the bickering over at city hall. If I have to write one more article about some overstuffed blowhard spewing lies disguised as promises, I’ll fling myself out one of these windows.”

This corner office provided plenty of options; all of them oversized and streaked with thin rivers of water. Arthur wasn’t holding his breath for an appearance by the sun today. “Ten storeys down will get the job done but if it comes to that, wait ‘til after your birthday. I already got you somethin’.”

There was a flash of amusement in his brown eyes. “Are you going to tell me why you’re interested in the Serendipity Tragedy or are you going to keep stalling?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s just say the real tragedy might be that someone has gotten away with murder.”

Albert leaned back in his seat, loosening his green tie. “Is it wise for you to be involved in a case where you know the deceased?”

“No,” Arthur snorted. “Not at all.”

Open-and-shut-cases don’t hog the headlines. With only a few articles to sort though, reacquainting themselves with the official story was easy. Just before midnight, Heidi McCourt slipped off to rest after claiming she felt ill. Fireworks greeted the new year and she said farewell; the deed concealed by the celebrations. A horrified janitor discovered her body six hours later in a locked guestroom with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Sorrow over a failed career was the culprit.

Arthur jotted a couple of new details into his journal. A diary was reported as the source of the motive and he obtained the names of two potential witnesses: Molly O’Shea and Abigail Roberts. Like a certain enigmatic businessman he was trying to not think about, the two ladies were both friends of Heidi and had attended the party. There was no mention of Micah Bell. Not that Arthur was surprised. Newspapers were probably the last place he’d want to be. After the electric chair, of course.

“It’s odd that no one went searching for Miss McCourt when she—” The door burst open and cut Albert off.

“English, we’ll be doublin’ the money ya owe me! The absolute shite you put me through. Jesus Christ!”

Officer Sean MacGuire stormed inside as if his singular goal in life was to make as much racket as possible. It probably was. The Irishman was a lifelong leech who thrived on attention. Clad in the dark blue uniform of the Blackwater Police Department, with his gold buttons polished, young face clean-shaven, and red hair neatly trimmed, Sean almost passed for an upstanding citizen. He knew better. Sean was barely a stone’s throw away from the petty thief Arthur had arrested back in the day.

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a goddamn newsroom,” Arthur sneered, shutting the door once more. “Keep your voice down unless you want the entirety of Blackwater to know our business.”

“I could’ve lost me job! Twice!” Sean extended the file folder in his hands towards Arthur only to pull it back. “Not that you care. Oh no. Just as long as ol’ Sean gets you what you want. Milton and Ross are like fucking dogs! Just a hint of trouble in the air and they come sniffing around like a pair of bloodhounds. The bastards.”

“Ain’t my fault you’re as subtle as a slap to the face and can’t sneak around your own workplace.” Arthur tried to grab the folder again, but Sean held it out of reach.

“Look Mason! Got ourselves a fucking comedian here!”

Albert shifted to the right so Arthur could grab Sean by his collar, dragging the smaller man across the table. “You’re gonna see somethin’ _real_ funny if you don’t give me that damn file.”

“Easy, Morgan. Easy!” Sean squeaked, dropping the all-important item. “I was just playing with you!”

Grumbling under his breath, Arthur relented and tossed the promised money onto the table. Sean snatched it up with the speed of a seasoned pickpocket.

“Nearly had a heart attack. Ross is always prowling around. Milton though? Bastard rarely leaves his palace and today of all days he does! Can’t say I blame him for being a hermit. Half the place hates his guts and his office is beautiful. But why the fuck does he need a fireplace in there? Doubt his arse gets cold considering he’s always sitting in his fancy chair like some smug lord lookin’ down upon the peasants and—why do you keep staring at me like that, Mason?”

“Sorry, it’s just, whenever our paths cross I’m always left wondering how exactly you managed to secure a position with Blackwater’s Finest.”

Arthur snorted so hard his nose hurt. Sean took no notice. “I’m Irish! I walked in lookin’ for directions and walked out with a job.”

“Ah,” Albert replied, stroking his thick mustache and beard. He was the only man at the Ledger who refused to shave. “With hiring practices like that I suppose our high crime rate shouldn’t be much of a surprise.”

“Two comedians. Great.” Sean pulled up a chair. “What’s so interesting about this stiff?” When he placed his feet on the table, Arthur smacked them off. He’d toss him out the window if the police station wasn’t right across the street.

Albert filled Sean in on the particulars while Arthur sifted through the autopsy report and various grisly photos. Death always left a trail; clues that let dead men—or women in this case—tell their tales. His eyes searched for an oversight. Something small. Something that could poke a hole into the original conclusion. Arthur was far too sober to be staring at a star-shaped hole in his friend’s skull, but then again there probably wasn’t enough scotch in the world to make any of this alright.

“See the shape of it? The burn mark? The gun was pressed to her left temple.” Albert and Sean watched Arthur’s finger hover just above the photo. “There should be gunpowder on her hand though.”

When he picked up the photo of the exit wound, Sean bristled and buried himself in the written report. “Christ. Never once have I regretted not working in forensics.”

The bullet made a goddamn mess. Blew the right side of her head open, exiting close to her ear. Or what was left of it. The knowledge that he had seen worse did little to help. Arthur closed his eyes, remembering when he watched Heidi write out postcards to her siblings. ‘Greetings from California’ splashed over the Golden Gate Bridge. The pencil had been in her right hand. Yet that wasn’t the one she had used to end her life.

Albert, who had paled considerably, squinted at the photo. “Seems the bullet exited lower than it entered.”

“It was fired at a downward angle, that’s why.” Arthur tossed the photo on the table in disgust. “She wasn’t holding the gun.”

“Look at this.” Sean slid the report forward and tapped the toxicity results. A fair amount of alcohol had been found in her blood. “Definitely not a dry party. Drunk as a skunk, she was!”

Fury curled inside, coiling up within him like a tightly wound spring. His jaw clenched in the same way it had when he first found out Heidi had died. It was like hearing the news all over again. Just worse. Sometimes the line between suicide and homicide could be blurred. Not here.

“Why cover up a murder and purposely do a terrible job at it?” Arthur said this mostly to himself but Albert and Sean looked equally confused.

Milton was a seasoned lawman. None of this would have gotten past him or any coroner worth their salt. It’s like they wanted someone to find out. Or maybe they were so blindingly arrogant, so satisfied with their padded pockets that they didn’t think anyone would go looking for, let alone discover the truth. That seemed more likely. There was probably more to it though. There always was.

Arthur sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. Already exhausted and nowhere near noon yet. “Might wanna suggest finding a new coroner to your superiors.”

“English, if we got rid of every corrupt officer, the department would be a ghost town.” Sean tilted his head with a cheeky grin. “Hell, I’d be fired first.”

\--

In a parlor with more flowers than a greenhouse, choking on thick air sweetened by honeysuckle as he awaited the lady of the house, one thing was very clear: Arthur shouldn’t be here. Even her Persian cat seemed to agree. It paced near the doorway eyeing him like the maid had, as if he was liable to steal something. Not that Arthur had any right to complain. After all his lack of better judgement had brought him here. Now he sat under the gaze of a ghost. Heidi McCourt bored down from above the fireplace mantle, her likeness almost perfectly captured except for her eyes. Too cold and piercing. Hers were more like the soft blue hydrangea resting along the windowsill.

Therein lay the problem.

Albert had called it earlier. Arthur was close. Too close. Proximity can fog up the glass, make things harder to see. His objectivity was already suffering, having sided with the client’s belief that the victim was murdered before he had definitive proof. Now that he had it, the smart thing to do would be to pass the case off to another private investigator. One with distance. Greed had sunk its claws in him though. Good and deep. It wasn’t just the money. Arthur wanted answers, wanted to make sense of it all, wanted to do right. As if good done now can make up for all his past wrongdoings.

A black telephone sat on the ottoman before him. Its silent existence almost taunted Arthur. He needed to call his client but had been dragging his heels.

John Marston. Every time his sly smile flashed before his eyes Arthur pushed it away with both hands. Between his careful words and coy mannerisms, the scarred gentleman had occupied his thoughts far more than was professional. Their conversation had been in fun. Until it wasn’t. His finger still burned from where John had slowly traced it with his. Not an invitation or even a suggestion so much as recognition. I see you, it said, but Arthur didn’t want to be seen.

Maybe he was making too much of it. Arthur quickly fished out the matches from his pocket and dialed the number.

“Beecher’s Hope.” The voice on the other end was as raspy as it had been when they last spoke. Somehow it grated on his ears yet he still liked the way it seemed to linger in the air.

“Mr. Marston, it’s—”

“What a nice surprise, Mr. Morgan. Didn’t expect to hear back from you so soon. You always this eager?” John had paused before the final word for emphasis.

“My rate is $25 a day plus expenses,” Arthur said curtly, in no mood for his nonsense.

The long silence that followed was filled by voices and laughter muffled by jazz music. It was a jaunty tune. The kind you can dance to, if you liked that sort of thing. “This is the one time in my life I didn’t want to be right. You sure?”

“Unless Miss McCourt pointed the gun down at herself and then wiped her hands after the act, while drunk then yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

John exhaled loudly through his nose. Arthur supposed it was nice, in a twisted sort of way, to have another share one’s frustrations. “How’d the police not catch that? You’d think—” The rest of his sentence was lost to the lively music. Someone was having a grand old time with their trumpet.

“The hell kind of café you got there, Mr. Marston?”

“You should come.” Arthur could practically hear John smirking. “I’ll give you a private tour.”

“I’ll pass. Coffee ain’t all that interesting.”

“Guess it depends on who’s servicing you.” John spoke slowly, letting the words dance over his tongue.

Arthur grabbed the bridge of his nose. “I have business to attend to. Call Miss Jackson to discuss payment options.”

He hung up so quickly that his hands fumbled and the phone nearly fell off the ottoman. The cat peered at him like he was an idiot and was right to do so. He had been on the nose about John. This was all his fault. Arthur had been sloppy and now he had to nip whatever the hell this was in the bud. Set the fool straight the next time he saw him. Russian Roulette was a safer bet than dabbling with a client and Arthur had no intention of getting shot anytime soon.

“I apologize for not being fit to receive you when you first arrived, Mr. Morgan.” Dorothy McCourt swept into the room briskly, still adjusting her silver earrings. “It’s been a while since I had any gentleman callers.”

It almost hurt to look at her. Aside from the short, wispy hair clouding around her head like a storm cloud and the fine lines streaking out across her face, Dorothy was what Arthur suspected Heidi would look like had she been given the chance to reach her fifties. Likely thrown on in haste, her black dress was wrinkled and the imprint of a pillow still rested upon her cheek. Arthur felt like a cad for forcing a grieving mother out of bed. Still, she held her head high as if nothing was wrong. Whether it was for his sake or hers that Dorothy wanted to maintain the illusion that everything was well, Arthur didn’t know and wouldn’t ask.

“No need to apologize, Mrs. McCourt. Your cat kept me company.”

“Would you like some sher—I mean, a glass of water?”

Arthur grinned. “I’m a detective, not a cop. Never been one to say no to a drink.”

“You were an officer of the law though.” Dorothy bent down and pulled out a bottle of sherry hidden beneath the plush sofa. “If memory serves, Heidi mentioned something along those lines when you and I first met.”

“I was, but not a very good one. Hold the same opinion of prohibition then as I did now.”

“Which is?”

Arthur watched the rich brown liquid fall into the crystal tumblers. He’d bet every last dollar to his name that Hosea Matthews made that alcohol possible. Outside of speakeasies, the pharmacy was the easiest place to get a drink. Only a prescription was required and doctors handed them out like candy thanks to kickbacks. Hosea kept those shelves stocked.

Seated at the top of an empire built on bootlegging and racketeering, the Matthews Outfit was _the_ major crime syndicate in West Elizabeth. Despite the ban, booze flowed as freely as tap water here since the early twenties thanks to his ability to work with rather than against most of his competitors. There were still squabbles every now and then. Violent murders of traitors, federal agents, and those who couldn’t toe the line were all too common. But no blood was shed on his streets unless Hosea had deemed it necessary. It also didn’t hurt that he had nearly every politician and lawman on this side of the Lannahechee on his payroll.

Except Arthur.

Hosea was more of a father to him than the real one. Certainly far more than Dutch had been as well. Arthur loved Hosea so much that he wanted nothing to do with him.

He clinked his glass with hers. “Not worth the trouble it breeds.”

Dorothy gave him a smile before taking a sip. “Forgive me, Mr. Morgan, but you don’t strike me as the sort of man who pays old widows social calls. What can I help you with?”

By all rights, he should be a better liar. Criminals and cops practically swam in falsehoods. Yet Arthur had long been transparent as gin and his fabrications never went down as smoothly. He was forced to rely on half-truths and his personal favorite, withholding information.

“I wanted to see how you were doing. We only spoke briefly at the funeral. I should have called on you earlier.”

“I’m about as well as can be expected, I suppose. I still feel like I’m drowning most of the time.” Dorothy set down her already empty glass. “I think what troubles me most is that I didn’t see it coming. Heidi was my daughter. She lived in this house up until the end. Yet somehow I didn’t notice her unhappiness.”

If Arthur was an amateur, he would’ve dropped the detective act right then and there. Sympathy would’ve led him to show his cards. Instead he held them tight to his chest. It’s not that he didn’t trust Dorothy. It’s just he didn’t need her barging over to the station, rightfully demanding the heads of every officer in sight. So long as the police didn’t know what he knew, Arthur could move freely throughout the shadows until the time was right to step back into the light.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Arthur said firmly. “No one could have seen it. She was always so happy.”

“She was, wasn’t she? I mean, Heidi was quite sad when she lost her job with her previous employer but that went away after a successful audition for a film. She had plans to move back out west and with her sweetheart, no less.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware Heidi had found a special someone.”

“Yes, his name is Micah Bell. When I first met him I thought he was a bit rough around the edges and not at all right for my dear Heidi, but he turned out to be a perfectly charming man. He came by not too long ago.” She patted his hand in a painfully maternal fashion. “You’re both dears for wanting to check up on me.”

Right back to feeling like a cad. Based on what he knew, Arthur lacked the imagination to picture Micah Bell as charming, but he took Dorothy’s word for it. At least the primary suspect was in town and Arthur could pay him a visit eventually.

He finished off his drink and cleared his throat. “Who was her previous employer?”

“Believe it or not, Hosea Matthews. She worked in the gardens at that fancy house of his by Quaker’s Cove. I wasn’t thrilled when she first told me, but he paid her well and treated her right. Until the end. I had half a mind to march down there and demand to know why he fired her.”

Arthur refrained from asking for another glass of sherry. He needed something a hell of a lot stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for all of your support. John and Arthur will be back together in the next chapter. Until then. <3


	3. The Two Shepherds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur ventures down to the Matthews Estate to speak with Hosea about the murder. After learning that Micah Bell is stirring up trouble in town, he goes to warn John and uncovers a few more surprises.

If you wanted to get rid of a body, this was the place to do it. The sprawling Matthews Estate overlooked where Flat Iron Lake forked; it was a toss up where the stiff would wind up. This and other trying memories were difficult to shake as he stood before a fortress of white wood siding, a wraparound veranda, and many, many green shuttered windows from which guards peered out. Unconcerned about his safety Hosea had been hard pressed to live in “a bloated country home plucked out of a dead century,” as he called it, until an attack on his apartment left scores of innocents dead and him singing a different tune.

According to the valet, Hosea was out for a ride so Arthur happily ventured down to the stables. There was no finer creature than the horse. Hosea threatened to buy him one every Christmas but Arthur always declined, lest he wind up here every weekend. A tiny, broken piece deep inside, buried beneath hard truths and harder memories yearned to start a ranch out west. Instead like a tree his roots clung to the soil of West Elizabeth, seeping deeper and deeper with every passing year.

“Ain’t you a beauty,” Arthur cooed to a Thoroughbred mare, her dark bay coat shined even in the shade of the stable roof. “Someone takes good care of you.”

“Thank you, sir! I try to.”

A gangly, pale man peeked out seven horse stalls down, eyes growing comically wide when he caught sight of Arthur. What was his name? Kieran? Something like that. Better known as the lovestruck fool who Arthur teased mercilessly whenever he encountered him loitering around the bookstore beneath his office, desperate to catch the eye of a certain employee. In a pair of high riding boots, brown slacks, and a blue button-down, the soft-spoken young man fit the bill as a stable manager.

“Oh! Mr. Morgan! I mean Detective Morgan! I—I didn’t realize, uh, are you here to investigate something?”

“I don’t know. You do somethin’ that needs investigating?”

“No, sir! I’ve done nothing wrong. I swear!”

Jumpier than a sinner in a church, Arthur wasn’t sure how useful Kieran would be to gleam information from but took a shot in the dark anyways. “Did a Heidi McCourt used to work here?”

“I—I can’t say, sir.” Kieran shuffled into a stall, hiding behind a stoic Appaloosa. He began to brush its spotted coat. “I only started working here a few months ago.”

Horseshit. Their employment periods overlapped despite Heidi’s termination. Lying to a lawman meant that Hosea had likely pulled another little lost black sheep into the fold. Kieran didn’t seem like much of a rum-runner or racketeer though. Maybe that’s why Hosea liked him. The unsuspecting had a way of being useful.

“Y’know lying to me ain’t a wise thing to do, boy.” Arthur started forward, trapping Kieran in the stall. “You started here six months ago and Miss McCourt was let go at the end of November. Am I supposed to believe you two never crossed paths?”

“I only met her a handful of times! No more than that. Miss McCourt worked in the gardens and greenhouse, I think. Don’t know much about her except that everyone was sad when she passed.”

Arthur sighed, realizing he had already reached the extent of what Kieran could tell him. With time to spare and Mary-Beth not around to stop him, he couldn’t help but slip into his habit of being a absolute louse. His eyes narrowed into slits. “Where were you on the night of December 31st?”

“W-What?” Kieran dropped the horse brush. Bug-eyed and head swiveling for an escape, it was like watching a squirrel trapped in the middle of a busy road. “I didn’t do nothing. I swear! I was here the whole night.”

“Got anyone who can verify your alibi?” One step forward had Kieran staring at him like he was an oncoming car.

“Arthur, are you terrorizing my employees again?”

The dry voice halted his shenanigans as swiftly as it did when he was fourteen. Dressed similarly to Kieran, except for his striped blue vest and a dark, wide-brimmed hat, Hosea came across as a world-weary old cowboy back from the trail. That’s what he wanted people to think; writing him off as a relic tended to be a grievous error. A silver-haired and tongued chameleon who changed as the world around him did, his gaze and mind were as razor sharp as the knife he carried in his boot.

Arthur gave him a sheepish grin. “Maybe.”

Hosea gave Silver Dollar one last loving pat, before passing the reins to Kieran. “Don’t mind him, Mr. Duffy. He’s really a child masquerading as a grown man.”

“Should’ve used the strap more when you had the chance, old man. Ain’t my fault I was raised with no manners.”

“See what I mean?”

Poor Kieran had a crooked smile, clearly unsure whether he was allowed to laugh and at whom. This was how it always was. Playful jabs were terms of endearment. The faux frostiness melted the instant they stepped outside. Hosea wrapped an arm around Arthur and gave him a squeeze.

“Son, it’s good to see you. What brings you by?” His smile faltered. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothin’ like that.” Arthur patted the worn hand before it fell away. “How’s that cough of yours?”

“Let’s just say I’ve finally found something that’s even more stubborn than you.”

Arthur snickered. “Where’d you find that kid again? He always seems one mild inconvenience away from a nervous breakdown.”

“We caught him hiding up at our operation near Wallace Station. Ran off from the O’Driscolls. Figured he’d do better down south; far from anyone who might recognize him.”

“An O’Driscoll? Here? Christ alive.” Arthur shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t trust him to pass the salt at the dinner table and here you are givin’ him a job! How’s that fit into your peace with Colm?”

Hosea had that sly old fox grin of his plastered on. “It doesn’t.”

The gardens held no collage of colors yet. On the cusp of April, the rosebushes were still wrapped in burlap; the seeds surrounding the mausoleum were Bessie rested had yet to sprout. They walked in silence. The air had grown heavy with things better left unsaid. Guilt was a constant companion. Arthur knew its every shape and form, knew how it weighed him down for trudging out a new path rather than following the course set by the man who was his father in all but name and blood. Hosea gave Arthur no grief for staying on the right side of the law when he strayed back to the left but he still kept the door wide open in case his wayward lamb ever wanted to rejoin the flock.

“I’m investigating a murder.”

If Hosea resented that only an ulterior motive or a special occasion would bring Arthur to his doorstep, he kept it to himself. He simply replied, “I figured as much. Who was the unlucky victim?”

“Heidi McCourt.” That stopped the old man in his tracks. Hosea squinted at him as if he didn’t believe what he had just heard. “I have the evidence. It couldn’t have possibly been her who pulled the trigger and the police did a purposely sloppy job at covering it up.”

Grim-faced and stare set straight ahead at nothing in particular, Arthur could practically hear the gears turning inside. “And you’re wondering why I fired her?”

Arthur would have winced if he wasn’t used to Hosea being a straight-shooter; able to cut right to the point without theatrics.

“Miss McCourt used to be a model employee, but around September or so she stopped coming in on time. Some days she wouldn’t show at all.” Hosea broke off into a cough, then cleared his throat. “When she was here, she was always distracted. My understanding is that the young lady found herself a new man and he was eating up all her time.”

The lines across his face suddenly seemed deeper. A trick of the light, but still, it made Hosea seem far older than he was. “I thought my actions contributed to her end and, well, I can’t say I feel any relief to hear the truth. Miss McCourt was well-liked and believe me I got an earful when I let her go. Can’t think of anyone who’d want her dead.”

“I hate to ask but Micah Bell doesn’t by any chance work for you now, does he?”

“I’m almost offended you’d ask such a thing.” Hosea waved a dismissive hand before Arthur could rattle off an apology. “I’m a degenerate but I have standards. Loose cannons like that are bad for business. Mrs. Adler is as wild as I’ll go.”

“I only asked ‘cause take a guess at who was eating up all of Miss McCourt’s time.”

A blank stare was followed by a bark of laughter. “Arthur, I’m no Sherlock but—”

“If he is the murderer, why’d the cops protect him? Police across five states have been gunnin’ to see him fry for at least a decade now.”

“Powerful friends, most likely. How else would he have escaped the chair so many times?” Hosea gave Arthur a pained look. “You be careful, alright? He’s around. Caught the bastard nosing around my area of the docks. Like a damn rat he scurried off and vanished down Mercer Road before my men could catch him.”

Mercer Road? Wasn’t that where Beecher’s Hope was located? “It’d be suicide to stir up shit with you.”

“He ain’t all there. To be honest, I doubt Mr. Bell is working alone. An awful lot of dust has been kicked up as of late. Dutch is after Colm again and—” Hosea smiled weakly. “Nevermind. Just know if he or anyone give you any trouble—”

“I’ll be fine,” Arthur said quickly, hating that he wanted to know more. It had been over ten years and yet the urge to follow his shepherd and to keep tabs on the other still simmered under the surface. “You have enough to worry ‘bout without tossin’ me into the mix.”

“I’ll always worry about you, Arthur. You know that.” Hosea placed a hand on the angel carved into the stone walls of the mausoleum. “Where you off to now?”

“Beecher’s Hope.”

“When you get there, be sure to tell them you prefer tea.”

“But I don’t.” Arthur frowned.

Hosea gave him a cryptic smile. “Trust me.”

\--

Beecher’s Hope was the sort of place Arthur avoided. Porcelain plates accompanied by too many silver utensils. Fresh flowers on every lace-covered tabletop. A white canopy turned pink by the waning sun under which ladies in furs enjoyed their overpriced coffee and pastries. The math wasn’t adding up. Sure John masqueraded as a refined gentleman, but he was a rough bastard. Same as him. Yet he owned a place like this?

Arthur swept past a host who quirked an unimpressed eyebrow at his rudeness, stepping into the bright and elegant interior that was surprisingly empty save for three rough men laughing and smoking their way through a poker game. A waiter cleared his throat as he vanished into the kitchen prompting one of the card players, an older man whose gray hair had abandoned the top of his head in favor of the sides, to rise. His aged face held all the reluctance in the world at having to stand, but he still approached with all the good humor of an old friend.

“Hello there! You lost, buddy?”

“Don’t think so. Is Mr. Marston in? I need to speak with him.”

“Maybe,” he smiled a bit too cheerfully, thumbing his brown suspenders. It was hard not to notice the gun tucked into in the waistband on his pants. “Don’t think I’ve seen you ‘round before.”

“Not much of a coffee drinker, I suppose. I prefer tea myself.”

“Well, lucky you!” The man slapped him on the back and strolled over to the counter, leaning over next to where the register sat. “I saw him earlier today.”

The man pressed something under the ledge and a panel in the wall behind the counter slid to the left. A wave of music and chatter left Arthur biting his lip in a desperate attempt not to smile as he swept off his fedora and entered the crowded room. Smoke pooled high above; chandeliers glittered like stars lost behind clouds. A lively band had couples spinning around a circular stage in a fast foxtrot. Dames decorated the counter along the far wall; two bartenders slid glasses around them as they showed off their legs and smiles in equal parts. Busy tables identical to the ones outside filled out the peripheries, yet the faint calls of a black dealer could still be heard over them from a back room. All-in-all, it was a fine place to blow a lot of dough in a short time.

“Thought coffee wasn’t interestin’ enough for you.”

Despite the black bow-tie, sleek white waistcoat, and a carnation boutonnière, John still came off as thoroughly indecent. It was the smirk’s fault; the hint of teeth that overrode any sense of propriety that his prim and proper evening attire projected.

“Guess curiosity got the better of me.” Arthur shrugged, before searching his pockets. “Your choice in a front is kinda brilliant. Cops won’t look twice at some snooty café.”

“That was the idea,” John replied, looking down as if he had the capacity to be bashful.

“I was right though.” He placed a fresh cigarette between his lips as John came up the small flight of stairs. “You _are_ a vulture.”

Silver lighter ready, John replied, “Ain’t rightly sure I know what you mean.”

The flame flickered between them. Against his better judgement, Arthur leaned forward and enjoyed a much needed drag. He was supposed to set John straight about the boundaries of their relationship—bastard had a smug glint in his dark eyes—but the music seemed to be drowning the rational part of his brain out. “I mean you picked the right time to get into this sort of business.”

“Don’t know if I’d call myself a scavenger.” John flicked his head for Arthur to follow. “I’m just providing people with what they need.”

“A hangover?”

“A distraction.”

The younger man led him through the diverse crowd, only pausing to whisper something to a waiter. Some of the occupants were dressed to the nines, others looked as though a stiff drink was all they could afford. Once they had arrived at the best seat in the house, above all the action, John looked down at the dance floor where couples had slowed to the sounds of Gershwin. Meanwhile Arthur was looking at him and was pretty certain he had the better view.

“You dance, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur snorted. “I’m too old for that nonsense.”

“How old is that? I’ll have to be careful.” John nodded in thanks at the waiter who had appeared with a pair of double scotches. “Didn’t realize dancing came with an age limit.”

“Ain’t you nosy?” Arthur rolled his eyes when John clinked their drinks together. “Thirty-six.”

“Excellent. Only ten more years ‘til retirement then.” John smirked behind his glass. “Tell me, what do grumpy old men get up to when they’re not working? I’d like to prepare ahead of time.”

“I’m always working on somethin’ one way or another.” Arthur shrugged, relishing the delightful burn of the scotch but trying not to show it. “I suppose gettin’ out of the city is always nice.”

“You seem like a man who enjoys a good game of cards.”

“Sure.” Arthur dragged out the word, before taking another sip.

“You strike me as the sort who likes to place his money on a sure thing. You want to know what you’re getting into before raising the stakes and aren’t one to hedge your bets. That’s the smart way to play.”

God knows where this conversation was going. “I take it you don’t play that way then?”

“No but being smart ain’t somethin’ I’m accused of very often.” His smirk became a genuine smile. “I like playing the odds; taking my chances on a long-shot. Sometimes it blows up in my face, but usually the bigger the risk, the bigger the reward.”

Arthur sighed heavily. He hadn’t known John Marston for even a week and yet he was fairly certain he might just be the most irritating man Arthur had ever encountered. Was it even possible to have a straight conversation with him? “Why do I get the feelin’ we ain’t talking ‘bout gambling no more?”

“What else could we be talking about?”

“Stop it.” He crushed his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. “Coyness doesn’t suit you. Y’know exactly what you’re doing.”

“We’re just talking. Pretty sure folks still call it that, unless there’s a new term that I’m not aware of.”

“Well, you can _talk_ all you damn well like but whatever this is.” Arthur gestured between them, cursing himself for being inept with words. “It’s not going any further. You’re a client. Period.”

John’s lip curled slowly, as if his words were a challenge not a rejection. “How professional.”

After throwing back the rest of his scotch, Arthur set the empty glass down firmly and spoke with a hard edge to his voice. “Look. I came here to warn you. That’s it. The police didn’t miss the evidence that Miss McCourt was murdered, they ignored it. Worse yet, Mr. Bell _was_ the man you saw on the ferry and he’s not only in town but trying to provoke the person who keeps this joint wet.”

“Funny. I was beginning to think you don’t like me. Yet it almost sounds like you care about my well-being.”

“I don’t, but I’ve seen speakeasies become battlegrounds. Can’t have my meal ticket getting shot so keep your ear to the ground, alright?”

The round of applause that greeted a red-haired singer masked John’s retort, though Arthur got the gist of it, what with the scowl and all. When she plopped herself on top of a grand piano her long evening gown reminded him of a burning green candle, the way it dripped down and pooled around her on the shiny, black wood. The singer had on far more make-up than necessary. Perhaps to stand out in the low light as she began to croon out a dreamy love song with an Irish lilt. It left couples clinging to one another on the dance floor and Arthur’s blood cold.

“Who’s the canary?”

“That’s Miss Molly O’Shea. You’re lucky to catch her tonight. She only sings here a few times each month.”

“You know Abigail Roberts too?”

John’s face froze. “Why?”

He’ll take that as a yes. “According to the newspapers, they were both friends of Miss McCourt and attended the New Years party.”

“Oh.” John finished his own drink and his voice became scratchy. “Well, whenever you want to meet either, just ask.”

“Good to know.”

Arthur eyed his downtrodden drinking partner wearily. He was sulking. Actually sulking. Probably not used to getting turned down. If only the idiot would realize it was for his own damn good. Young, handsome, and with more money than brains, John could easily find someone far better than some miserable old bastard.

“You aware Miss McCourt worked for Mr. Matthews as a gardener?” John shook his head. “Up until late November. She was fired for showing up late constantly or not at all. Apparently being with Mr. Bell was a time-consuming endeavor.”

“That doesn’t seem like Heidi though. She was one of those people who always arrived five minutes early to everything. You don’t think—”

“Mr. Matthews isn’t the sort who’d do that,” Arthur snapped without thinking.

“You speak as if you know the man.”

“Don’t you?”

“Barely, but we get along fine. He offers a fair price despite his stranglehold on the liquor business.”

“Well, look at that.” Arthur tilted his head. “You _are_ capable of having a business relationship that is strictly professional.”

A deep blush swept over his scarred cheeks. To his great annoyance, Arthur liked it very much. Fortunately, before he got the urge to say something stupid just to make it happen again, the friendly armed gatekeeper from before came huffing and puffing up the stairs. Not wanting a heart attack on his hands, Arthur gave the old man his seat. Too winded to speak, he gestured lamely towards the doors.

Two men stood side-by-side surveying the room like hawks in search of field mice. Immaculately dressed, all white bow-ties and blacker than black tailcoats, they fit in far too perfectly and vanished from their line of sight. They would have escaped Arthur’s notice entirely, if their names weren’t Dutch van der Linde and Micah Bell. He regretted giving up his chair; the impact of seeing his old mentor after so long hit Arthur like a freight train dead on.

“Damn it, Uncle!” John snapped. “I told you not to let Mr. Van der Linde or any of his sort in here! All they do is stir up shit and—”

“Unlike you, I value my life! You don’t say no to a man like that. What should we do?”

“What I should do is stick a scarecrow out front.” John rose sharply. “It’d do about as good a job as you but at least I wouldn’t have to pay it.”

Not liking remotely where this was going, Arthur latched onto John’s wrist. “Don’t go to them.”

John stared at Arthur’s hand, blinking twice, before a scowl took over again. Like a stubborn child, he tried to tug his wrist free, before prying the fingers off one-by-one. “I have no choice. Last time he attacked an oil executive and I nearly got shot in the process. I want him and Mr. Bell gone.”

“Then I’m comin’ with you.” Arthur got in John’s face as the fool opened his mouth to protest. “Shut up. This ain’t up for discussion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


	4. Between the Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation with Dutch and Micah leaves Arthur unnerved. Meanwhile John seems to have no sense of self-preservation.

For all his bravado and determination to keep John from getting himself killed, Arthur walked towards his former mentor with all the enthusiasm of a man marching to the gallows. He was far, far too sober for this. The last time he had felt this unsettled was when he returned home from the war. A “hero” for failing to get himself torn apart by machine guns while better men around him fell one-by-one. Everything was as he had left it. His house still stood tall upon that hill. Hosea and Bessie still looked at him with all the pride in the world. The fools in Washington were still making a mess of the country. Hell, even his job as Deputy Sheriff in Valentine was still waiting for him. It made him sick. All of it. Everything was the same but it didn’t feel that way, for Arthur was no longer the man he once was.

Sure, Dutch was older. Some new lines were etched into his face, particularly near those suspicious eyes, always darting about and still devoid of warmth. His impossibly black hair was a bit longer, slicked back, and curled at the ends with not a single strand out of place. Gold wristwatch. Bejeweled cufflinks. A suit that probably cost more than what most earned in a year. He was immaculate in a way Arthur could never hope to be. Money had never gotten in the way of him appearing pristine but now that he was the success he had always envisioned himself as, Dutch was not shy about flashing his wealth. Nothing had changed. Not really. Once again, what had changed was Arthur.

“Dutch.”

His heavily ringed hand briefly froze in the air, martini sloshing slightly in the glass. “Arthur.” He breathed out, as if he didn’t quite trust what he was seeing. Dutch set his drink down slowly. “How long has it been, son?”

A rhetorical question. A week was too much of a gap for Dutch, let alone five years—which in turn was hardly enough for Arthur. Before he had the chance to muster up some half-hearted response, John cut in.

“Mr. Van der Linde, I must apologize. Had I known you were hard of hearing I would have spoken up when I told you I don’t want you or any of your associates in my place of business.”

Jesus Christ. Maybe the only way to keep John safe in all this would be to cut out his tongue. Boorish as anything, John clearly saw Dutch’s presence as an insult and he would not stand for that no matter how dangerous it was to make an enemy of him. Dutch turned his head painstakingly slow. For a moment Arthur thought he was going to grab John’s face and smash it into the bar like he had that one time a bartender had gotten smart with him down in Tumbleweed. He hoped not. He rather liked that handsome face.

Instead his lips pulled back into a smirk. “Mr. Marston, I’m surprised by your hostility. I am simply here for the same reason everyone else is.” He toasted Molly who was belting out an upbeat love song over a sea of dancing couples. She positively lit up when he did it. “To have a good time and enjoy the entertainment.”

“I don’t give a damn what you’re here for,” John snapped, gesturing towards the gambling room in the back where Micah Bell had slipped off to. “Get out and take your friend with you.”

Dutch decided to take a leisurely sip of his drink before responding. “You ought to be more careful, Mr. Marston. So quick to throw out guests. You never know when one day when they might all disappear.”

John got right in Dutch’s face but the older man didn’t even blink. “Is that a threat?”

“It is if you want it to be.”

“Mr. Marston,” Arthur quickly interjected, pulling the younger man back. “I saw one of your waiters tryin’ to get your attention from the upper level.” John opened his mouth to argue, but he cut him off in a voice that brooked no argument. “Go see what they wanted.”

Between the clenched fists, squared shoulders, and a pout that would put the most spoiled child to shame, Arthur thought he might have to drag the fool away but instead John grumbled, “Alright, but when I get back you better be gone.”

After the young man skulked off, Arthur shifted his weight as he got caught up in a silent debate. Experience told him not to sit down. Curiosity was a poor compass; engaging in conversation would only end bad. Dutch, as usual, made the choice for him in the end however, snapping his fingers and ordering an old fashioned. Arthur sat down on the bar stool, not bothering to conceal his annoyance.

“Why are you in Blackwater?”

He quirked a thick brow. “For you, of course.” Arthur snorted into his drink and Dutch gave him the sort of heated stare that if it had it been fifteen years ago, he would have shrunk into his seat. “Son, it’s been fifteen years. Isn’t that a tad too long to hold a grudge?”

“You tell me.”

“Is it so hard to believe my intentions are pure? That I miss my son and want to see how he has been keeping?”

His hand tightened around the cool glass as he tipped it back; the ice cube and orange rind brushed against his lips. Arthur hated how he yearned for those words to be true; hated how he couldn’t lower his guard around Dutch. You’d think he was still the street urchin two hucksters had plucked off the streets over two decades ago, starving for more than just food.

“A phone call would’ve sufficed.”

He snickered, looking at Arthur with a deep fondness that was about as sincere as an excuse tossed out during a hasty morning exit following a night of passion.

“Too impersonal. I merely wanted to remind you that despite all that has happened between us and the years apart, my arms will always be open and ready to welcome you back.”

Dutch was doing that thing where he would smile and say everything Arthur wanted to hear to distract him from the noose slowly tightening around his neck. Not to kill. Not this time at least. Just to keep him right where he wanted.

Whenever their paths crossed Dutch never failed to extend an olive branch. Always held a bit too high so he’d have to work to get it. Nothing ever came easy with him. If Arthur hadn’t reached up for it when they last spoke, when he was nearly out of his mind with grief, he certainly wouldn’t do so now. Arthur would never go back to life on the wrong side of the law, though he may hop and skip along that fine line when necessary. Dutch knew this though. Why bother to pretend Arthur was the reason he came to Blackwater? He was here to cause trouble. That’s all he ever came for.

“Whatever you’re up to, Dutch, it ain’t gonna work.”

Rather than respond immediately, he bit off the two olives from the toothpick in his drink, one at a time. “Tell me, who is Mr. Marston to you?”

He blinked at the question; rye burning as it lingered on his tongue. Why bring up John out of the blue? Whatever the reason, Arthur was certain he didn’t like it. Dutch had always been able to see through any mask he put on, but nevertheless Arthur strove to maintain an oblivious expression as he replied casually, “Just someone who owns a speakeasy that I very much would like to keep drinkin’ at so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do anything to shut it down.”

“Shut down the only place in West Elizabeth where I can get a decent martini? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Who’s this, boss?” A male voice behind them asked.

Micah Bell looked a hell of a lot better than when Arthur saw him last. Covered in blood—none of it his—hair wild and hands cuffed; waving his right to remain silent in favor of vowing revenge on those who had sold him out as the police dragged him away. Now clean and suited up, to the ignorant he’d pass for a regular well-to-do citizen. There was a disdain in his eyes though, directed not at Arthur but rather at everything around him. The kind of malicious glint that radiated out of every mugshot, every picture snapped for the front page. The kind that said he wouldn’t mind setting this place aflame, if only to liven things up.

“Ah, there you are. Allow me to introduce you to Detective Arthur Morgan. Son, this is—”

“Micah Bell,” Arthur replied gruffly, ignoring the extended hand. A smarter man would’ve played nice but he had never been one to boast about his intelligence.

“So you’re Dutch’s boy?” Micah sneered, retracting his hand. “Funny. The way he talks about you, I thought you was actual family.”

“You don’t need to share blood to be family,” Arthur shrugged. The grin that crept across Dutch’s face was painfully genuine.

“Never would’ve figured you for a cop.” Micah tilted his head back and stroked his handlebar mustache. Funny that neither man cared in the slightest that facial hair had long fallen out of favor. “No, you seem more like someone who spends their days knee deep in horse shit; chasing after chickens, you know, fresh off the farm.”

“Actually that kinda sums up my time when I was still with the force over in Saint Denis.” Micah’s relaxed stance stiffened. “Lot of bureaucratic shit to wade through, but it was worth it when I got to help take down murderous cowards who were stupid enough to think they could evade the law forever.”

Micah’s fingers twitched. Arthur had a feeling he was aching to grasp his not-so-concealed gun and bury a bullet in his skull. Try it, fool.

“Watch it, cowpoke. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“That’s the thing.” Arthur leaned forward. “I know exactly who I’m dealing with and I can’t say I’m much impressed.”

“Play nicely in the sandbox, children,” Dutch chided, his tone heavy with exasperation. “You’ll have to forgive Mr. Bell, Arthur. He’s had a rough go at it, what with his girl passing suddenly and all.”

“That’s bad business,” Arthur said, eyeing Micah’s blank expression. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“So am I.”

“Yes, it was certainly unexpected. Such a tragedy. Miss McCourt was quite the girl. Wasn’t she, Arthur? I believe you knew her.”

These words fell from his lips slowly, like he wanted Arthur to know each one was carefully chosen just for him. Meanwhile, Micah seemed wholly bored and would much rather be anywhere else than here.

“That she was.” Arthur met Dutch’s intense stare, refusing to give any indication he was thrown by this knowledge of their friendship.

“The thing I miss about her most is that Miss McCourt was such a delightful conversationalist. That woman could shoot the breeze about anything. Politics and philosophy. Her friends. Her employer. The moral bankruptcy of Hollywood.” He smiled affectionately. “That girl could talk.”

“Dutch! I didn’t expect you to come see me tonight.” By the accent, Arthur knew Molly O’Shea was standing behind them even without turning around. With her set over, the band had resumed with some hot jazz number that might have his foot tapping if he wasn’t so tense.

“I’ll always make time for you, my dear.” He grasped her waist and pulled her in for a quick kiss. “You should know that by now. Why don’t you sit down and—”

“Actually Dutch,” Micah said, peering at his wristwatch. “We’re cutting it close.”

He glanced at his own. “That we are. Better get going then.” Dutch clamped a firm hand on his shoulder. “It was good to see you, son.”

“You’re leaving already?” Molly’s voice cracked with disappointment. “But you just got here!”

“Next time, dear.”

Her glare did not lessen even after Dutch and Micah vanished through the doors, though she did plop down next to him with her arms crossed. It was hard not to notice how Dutch hadn’t even bothered to introduce her to Arthur. Guess the man still held about as much regard for his women as he did the law.

As promised, John returned and was all smiles until he got close enough to sense the storm cloud hovering around the two. He glanced back and forth, probably wondering which one was less likely to bite his head off. Must have figured they were an equal risk, for he quietly slid two drinks towards them before slinking off again. Arthur downed his despite knowing that it would only serve to further blur the line Dutch had drawn between himself, Heidi, and Hosea. 

\--

“Do you think he knows we’re looking into Heidi’s murder?”

A few days later and John was back in Arthur’s office, demanding his curiosity be sated. He had strolled in uninvited and without an appointment again but he had apologized so profusely to Tilly that this time that she let him in with only an eyeroll instead of an earful. Now his slender body was stretched out lazily along the old sofa in the corner like he owned the damn thing. The Venetian blinds shadowed his face in bars as John stared up at the ceiling, lips pursed in puzzlement. Meanwhile Arthur had his arms crossed and was leaning against his desk, debating how much to light to shine on the situation for John.

“Nah. You’re safe. He would’ve asked you to stay if that were the case.”

“You shouldn’t’ve sent me away like that.”

“It was for your own damn good. You even got the slightest idea who Dutch van der Linde is, boy?”

John shrugged. “He’s just some arrogant low-life who holds a much higher opinion of himself than he should.” Arthur opened and closed his mouth, no doubt looking like some floundering fish. John gave him a teasing grin, sitting up to rest on his elbow. “I know he’s trouble but I ain’t a cop, Mr. Morgan. I don’t got some encyclopaedia of criminals in my head like you do.”

“No, but for a booze peddler you should have a better understandin’ of the industry you’ve blundered into.” Arthur rubbed his temples. “Y’know how alcohol flows like water between West Elizabeth, New Hanover, and Lemoyne?” John nodded. “That’s thanks to a peace deal between the three major crime organizations. Stay out of our affairs and we’ll stay out of yours is the long and short of it. What that means is they only have the law and the defiant to contend with.”

Like a rapt pupil, John sat up straight and gave Arthur his full attention. “I take it Mr. Van der Linde is the latter?”

“Yes.” The uneasy teacher scratched the back of his neck. “The big three don’t allow for competition and he’s got a real problem with that. Say you wanted to make and sell your own booze. Hosea’d put you out of business in a week. Dutch hates that. He sees “cutting out the little guy” as selfish and greedy. Likens it to the government trying to control people’s freedoms, which he had no patience for.”

“Bit rich for him to have a problem with greed.” John smoothed out the wrinkles in his pants before draping his arm along the top of the sofa. “Doesn’t he make most of his money from protection rackets?”

“Ah, so you do know a bit about him.” Arthur gave John a slow grin and the younger man returned it instantly. “Yes, he does, but he still dabbles with bootlegging. He thinks the market should be open and free like it is in New Austin and Ambarino where his operations are. Sees himself as a hero whenever he goes up against them.”

“And you reckon that’s what he’s up to again? To cause trouble for Mr. Matthews?”

Arthur nodded. “Heidi may have gotten caught in the middle of their ongoing feud.”

“Well.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as John swallowed this information. “All the more reason to have him thrown out if he shows up again. I don’t want that kind of trash in my bar.”

“Y’know I cant figure out if you have no sense of self-preservation or if you’re just an idiot.”

John smirked and came forward slowly. “Both, I suppose.”

Personal space was not a concept John had any regard for. Standing entirely too close, Arthur could see the hollows of the scars carved into his face, the way his lashes fanned out on his cheeks as his gaze fell, the faint shadow of facial hair threatening to become stubble. A treacherous part of him wanted to hold that handsome face in his hands. Another part wanted to go a bit lower, grasp those broad shoulders, and shake some sense into the infuriating fool. John had trapped him against his desk again. Once more he slid his arm barely an inch away from Arthur’s hip, but this time his goal was to steal two cigarettes from the opened case. Between his lips, he lit them together. Their cherries flared. Dark eyes met his from behind the smoke. John reached up to pass one over, but Arthur got there first. He plucked the cigarette right out and took a drag.

“Was that supposed to be alluring, Mr. Marston?”

“Sometimes I do things simply to see how others react.” John tilted his head back slightly, drawing Arthur’s eyes to his neck as he blew out a stream to the side. Another scar peeked out from his collar and he couldn’t help but wonder how far down it went. “Try it sometime. It’s fun.”

“Are my reactions livin’ up to your expectations?”

“Snide comments and feigning disinterest? Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Well, so long as I don’t disappoint.”

He eyed John’s lips while biting his own. The younger man froze up for a moment, perhaps in surprise, before tilting his head up. The heat between them was palpable; the kind that got collars tugged and jackets shed. When John’s eyes fluttered shut, Arthur leaned in and breathed against his lips.

“Move.”

John flinched, blinking stupidly a few times as his two brain cells scrambled to put together what just happened. When he stepped back, he made an exaggerated, sweeping gesture with his arms, beckoning the way for Arthur who smirked as he passed by.

“You’re right,” Arthur laughed. “It is fun.”

“You know, I’ve been wondering if it’d be better to find someone not connected to Mr. Matthews or Mr. Van der Linde.” John scowled at the desk now in between them. Arthur leaned back in his chair knowing that his expression was annoyingly smug. “Given how important _professionalism_ is to you and how bias might complicate that, I’m surprised you haven’t suggested it yourself.”

“You want someone else? There’s the door.” Arthur snapped, gesturing towards the exit. “Whether it hits your ass on the way out is no concern of mine.”

The younger man stood there, glaring at the cigarette in his fingers like it had hurt his surprisingly delicate feelings and not Arthur.

He sneered at the lack of movement. “That’s what I thought.” John soured further. “Oh, don’t look so upset at your bluff being called. Look at it this way, I’m the only detective in town who can poke around their business without getting shot on the spot. You need me.”

“And you’re fine with all this? Going behind their backs?”

“Not really, but if I wanted a comfortable job I would’ve become a pencil pusher or something equally soul-crushing. My money is still on Mr. Bell though.”

“What if it turns out Mr. Matthews had her killed for spilling secrets?”

“Then he’ll have to face the consequences of his crime.”

Disbelief swept across his face, but John kept quiet under Arthur’s hard stare. Dutch had been so eager to share that bit about Heidi talking about her employer. It wasn’t a lie. What exactly did she say though? Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything. Why tell Arthur though? Did he expect him to go running to Hosea? Did Hosea already know? The lines were there but he couldn’t read between them. Not yet at least. Deep down he wanted to believe Hosea didn’t have a hand in her death, that his grief had been real, but he was too cynical a bastard to place much faith in his hopes.

“Where do we go from here?”

“Work is the only place you’re going, Mr. Marston. Meanwhile I’ll be payin’ Mr. Bell a visit.” When John’s brows furrowed, Arthur added, “Without him knowing.”

His face fell. “What if he catches you snooping around?”

“Do I look like an amateur to you?” Arthur scoffed. “And no, you’re not coming so don’t bother asking.”

“C’mon, let me help.” John trailed a finger along the edge of his desk, stalking forward like a wolf pretending to be patient while eyeing his prey. “I can be very discreet and keep an eye out. You’ll be able to search the place faster.”

Even though having a second person would speed up the process, Arthur still snorted so hard at the comment that he started coughing around his cigarette and had to pound his chest with a fist to settle himself down. John went to pat his back but decided at the last moment to let him suffer and kept his hands to himself.

“Mr. Marston, you don’t know what that word means.” Arthur wheezed. “Hell, I doubt you got a subtle bone in your body.”

A sharp knock at the door was followed by Tilly marching in holding a box full of newspapers. “Courtesy of Mr. Mason.” She placed it on the sofa. “Want help getting through your new reading material? He’s collected quite the stack for you.”

Not exactly surprising since Arthur asked him to round up anything he could find on Micah.

He cleared his throat. “Only if you’re not busy. I don’t want to trouble you.”

Tilly waved a dismissive hand before digging into the box. “Oh, by the way, Mr. MacGuire called to confirm it is the Blackwater Hotel, as you suspected.”

A devious smile tore across John’s face. He made a grab for him but the fool was already out the door. An exasperated look met a bewildered one before Arthur went after him. John was still grinning like an idiot while buttoning up his coat, cigarette dangling from his lips. Practically sparking with excitement, Arthur felt old as sin in comparison to the impulsive younger man. Did he get some sort of kick out of doing dangerous things or did he just like irritating the hell out of Arthur? Probably both.

“This ain’t up for discussion,” John said, putting on his hat. “When I make an investment I like to see it through and that can’t happen if Mr. Bell shoots you.”

Arthur had half a mind to toss John in the closet and lock the door. “Did you not ask me to keep your identity a secret? If he’s there and he sees you, that’s it.”

“He won’t be there. If I’m wrong though—” John plucked the remaining hat off the coat rack and plopped it hard on Arthur’s head. “—you’ll protect me.”

By the time he took the hat off, John was already halfway down the hall. He stood there, flabbergasted, until Tilly’s chuckling from within his office caught his attention.

“You know,” she began, coming forward to lean in the doorway with a sly smirk. Arthur hastily threw on his coat, grumbling the whole while. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were sweet on that feller.”

Arthur shot her a nasty over the shoulder glance as he stormed out. “It’s a good thing you know better then, hm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurray, we've reached the last of the set-up chapters. Shenanigans from here on out. As always, thank you for your patience with this story and for taking the time to read it. <3


	5. The Blackwater Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and John try to sneak into Micah's hotel room without getting caught. It goes about as well as you think it would.

Fog off the Montana had rolled in swiftly. It smothered the streets in a milky gray that was thick and moist and determined to weigh everything down. From what he could see the pavement was covered in a sheen and dotted with puddles waiting to be splashed. Every dark figure that emerged from the mist recalled soot-covered civilians wading through the rubble and smoke of their blown-apart homes. Arthur pulled up his collar. The warm weather couldn’t get here fast enough.

Arms crossed and hat tilted low, John fit into the murky landscape as much as the streetlight he was leaning against; seemingly closed off like all the boarded up storefronts that ran rampant throughout the outskirts of Blackwater.

“Knew you’d come.”

His voice hinted at a smirk and Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, boy. I’m only here ‘cause if you die it’d be a hell of a tragedy for my wallet.”

“Boy?” John turned slowly, body straightening and arms unfurling. He reached forward and laughed in that soft manner of his, adjusting the lapels of Arthur’s hastily thrown on trench coat. “Don’t look so glum.” His fingers caressed the fabric as he smoothed out the wrinkles with care. “This could be fun.”

“Marston,” Arthur snapped, smacking the unwanted hands away and brushing him aside to hail a cab. “You and I got _very_ different understandings of that word.”

“Whatever you say, _old man_.”

John gave him such a warm smile though as the taxi rolled up that Arthur almost felt bad for wanting to throttle him. The ride wasn’t unpleasant. John managed to show an ounce of restraint and kept a respectable distance; overt flirtations and wandering hands halted by their one-man audience up front. The cab driver was a fine fellow but his penchant for small talk left Arthur cold and he let John deal with that. Buildings and shadows grew the deeper they drove. The rush hour flood from his memories was now a dying stream at best. The fortunate trickled out of their workplaces into the streets still damp from the earlier rainfall. When would those waters swell again?

Try as he might, it was hard not to sneak a couple of side glances at his partner-in-mischief. Brimming with excitement as Blackwater flashed by in his dark eyes, you’d think they were going on an adventure. Why anyone so young and full of life had the slightest interest in a miserable old fool such as himself was baffling. That hoarse voice of his. Whiskey over gravel—hell, maybe just all gravel—was quite animated, picking up whenever he got passionate about a topic or was firm in a belief. In other words, often. Unfortunately, John caught him staring and gave Arthur a wink, which set him right back to scowling out the window.

Standing seven storeys tall at the corner of Main Street and Tallulah Place, the Blackwater Hotel still had that upscale tenement look despite a major expansion some years ago. A large flashing sign bared its name in pay-attention-to-me letters while lights streamed up high between the windows, illuminating the six new floors. A doorman clad in a dark green uniform stood in the shadow of the new front façade which projected out onto the sidewalk, watching the new arrivals curiously.

“So what’s the plan?” Arthur asked jokingly in a low voice. As if he’d ever follow John’s lead. He was particular in how he went about his work. Simple but thorough and preferably without any improvisation. Know what you’re getting into. Know how you’re getting out. Get the job done right. Don’t leave any loose ends. Untested and unproven, he couldn’t count on the younger man to get any of those things right.

John paid the driver and waited until he drove off to respond. “Figured we was just gonna wing it.”

Arthur gave him a hard look. “Not with all we got on the line. Last thing we want is for Mr. Bell to find out we’re onto him, which is what’ll happen if we blunder into this like fools.”

“Well, how ‘bout this?” John spoke slowly, clearly trying to throw some hairbrained scheme together on the spot. “Why don’t you seduce the hotel clerk and distract ‘em while I take a peek at the reservation book?” He grinned slyly. “Unless you’re too shy.”

“It is nothing short of a goddamn miracle that you’ve made it this far in life, Mr. Marston.” John ducked his head briefly, only to return with a deep scowl. “What did I just say? If Mr. Bell catches wind someone was in his room, we don’t want no one to be able to place either of us here. You don’t want to attract attention. Not with a face like that.”

John immediately tilted his fedora down further and pulled up his coat collar to hide his scars.

“Great. Now ya look like a hoodlum.”

“There’s no pleasing you, is there?” John snapped. “Why the hell ask me what the plan is when you clearly know how you want this to go down?”

“Suppose I was curious.” Arthur shrugged, heading towards the entrance ignoring both John and the doorman. He waited until the doors closed behind them to add, “I’ll ask for a room. You make yourself useful in some other fashion.”

The interior had lost its character. Sharp and sleek in that oh-so-modern way, square patterns overlapped along the walls, ceiling, and front desk while black chevrons were littered across the marble floor. Full of gold trimmed edges, tall plants, and curtains that shimmered in the chandelier light, it looked like every other damn building built within the last five years. The hotel clerk was also new; a young man about John’s age with a smile as thin as his frame.

“Hello, sir. Welcome to the Blackwater Hotel,” the clerk said in a much rehearsed voice. “Do you have a reservation with us?”

“Afraid I don’t. I’d like to book one now, please.”

“Certainly. Do you have any preferences? We have a selection of suites available or perhaps a—good heavens!”

Arthur spun around. The umbrella tree near the entrance was on fire and at risk of spreading up to the dangling curtain. How John made the jump from seduction to arson, well, Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But hey, he’d take it.

While the horrified clerk dashed off to the hotel restaurant calling for help, he flipped the large reservation book on the desk around and dragged his finger down the rows upon rows of names. Three pages in, he stopped on a ‘Kilgore’ in Room 712. Perfect. Arthur returned the book to its original position as the clerk hurried back into the lobby holding an ice bucket full of water. He dumped it on the burning tree, emitting a great sigh of relief when the fire went out.

“Are self-combusting plants a common feature at this hotel?” Arthur teased as the clerk opened one window after another.

“No, sir. I haven’t the faintest idea how that happened.” He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief then smoothed out his uniform, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Perhaps someone tossed a cigarette in there.”

“Or a match,” John offered, strolling out of the restaurant looking far too pleased with himself.

“We’d like a room on the seventh floor,” Arthur said quickly, hoping to steer the clerk’s attention away from the idiot with ‘troublemaker’ written all over his semi-concealed face.

Still flustered however, the man didn’t even look up as he flicked through the book with one hand in search of an available room while the other dialed a number, the phone receiver securely clamped between his ear and shoulder. “You two need the room for an hour or the whole night?”

Jesus Christ. “It’s not what you think. We’re not—”

“The whole night,” John said in a huskier than normal voice. The urge to throttle him came roaring back.

After ringing the janitor, the clerk gave him the keys to their room—which Arthur made sure had two beds—and sent them off towards the elevator. Despite the persistent puppy dog eyes, he refused to speak to John the whole ride up. Naturally, the floor numbers ticked by painstakingly slow. To make matters worse, the elevator operator was eyeing the two of them suspiciously. If he had to lay the blame, it’d be on their lack of luggage.

“I don’t see why you’re so upset,” John grumbled. “No one got hurt.”

Arthur gave a single grunt as his dignified response. The dismissal shut John up until the operator had closed the iron gate behind them and was on his way back down.

“As for the clerk, it was just a joke!”

“Hysterical, Marston. Really. You should be a comedian.”

John purposely walked backwards in front of Arthur, forcing him to slow his brisk pace as they traveled down the narrow corridor, full of identical green doors and bizarre paintings in ornate frames.

“Besides, he didn’t look like he cared one way or another what we may or may not be up to.”

Arthur heard little of what John said. His eyes were on the blond man heading down the hall not too far up from them. He reached for his unaware partner but the sudden movement spooked him and John took a large step backwards. Right into a maid who emerged from 706, their room, along with her trolley. John landed with a thud and a slew of curse words, taking the cart down with him. Arthur side-stepped both and hid in the entrance of their suite. Laughter, courtesy of Micah, rattled down the hallway. Nosy guests unlocked their doors one-by-one, no doubt alerted by the loud clang of metal against marble. The maid, a young thing looking very prim and proper in her black and white uniform, stood there, body paralyzed by shock.

“Are you alright, sir?” Some woman asked.

“Just peachy,” John groaned, face miraculously covered by his hat. His head shifted slightly in the direction of Micah’s laughter.

The maid dropped down. “I am so sorry, sir! I didn’t see you coming. Let me help you up!”

“That’s fine.” John pushed her hands away. “I’m just gonna…lay here.”

“But sir, we should—” Arthur flashed a ten dollar bill at her and shook his head, mouthing the word ‘no.’ “—alright, you just stay there and I’ll clean up.”

While the maid began to retrieve and fold her scattered towels to the sound of closing doors, Arthur plucked a compact mirror out of his pocket. His thumb brushed over the raised ‘E’ on the silver cover before he opened it, turning it until he caught Micah in the reflection. The man pulled his key out of his pocket, a smile still curling his lips. Once he had gone inside his room, Arthur immediately set about righting the trolley and helping the maid collect all of her fallen supplies. Meanwhile John peeled himself off the floor and disappeared into their own suite.

Despite her puzzled expression, the maid still accepted the bribe. When her heels and the trolley wheels along the marble floor faded away, Arthur went to Micah’s room. Just their luck he was still in the building. Oh well. He’d have to leave for dinner at some point. Arthur slid a paper clip in the tight crevice along the frame before returning to their suite.

“You owe me ten dollars.”

“I don’t owe you shit, Morgan. That whole thing was _your_ fault and you know it.”

Bright whites and geometric shapes dominated the décor. Place was goddamn obnoxious. Sparkling lights, a fireplace, two plush beds, and a giant circular mirror for the vanity—good thing John was footing the bill. The man in question had plopped himself down on the leftmost bed, coat and hat tossed unceremoniously on the sofa.

“Y’know, I also asked for the whole night ‘cause I had a feeling this might take longer than expected. If we happen to use the room for other purposes—” John reclined onto his elbows with a coy smile. “—so be it.”

Even though he was going for alluring, all Arthur could see was someone desperately trying to pretend he hadn’t just hurt himself. “Lemme look at your head.”

“What? No. I’m fine.”

Arthur didn’t wait for permission. He joined John on the soft bed and manhandled him to search through his hair. You’d think he was trying to hurt him. John wriggled like a fish caught on a line. Then again, if it had been the other way around Arthur imagined he’d be reacting in a similar matter. There were few things more loathsome than being fussed over.

“Damn it, I’m _fine_. Let go of me.”

“What’s the matter, Marston?” Arthur leaned forward, lips hovering by John’s ear. “Thought you were dyin’ to get me to put my hands on you?”

John flushed a delightful shade of pink and stumbled over his response. Arthur would have kept teasing him if his fingers hadn’t come across a rather large lump that was already starting to bruise.

“That’s it. I’m gettin’ you ice.” Arthur rose and made a beeline for the door. “Stay put.”

“We don’t have time for this. We need to figure out how to get Micah outta the building.”

“He’ll leave on his own time. Don’t worry ‘bout him. I set somethin’ up to let me know when he’s gone.”

John made to get off the bed himself, but Arthur froze in the doorway and pointed a finger of warning at him. “No one got a good look at you earlier. Let’s not ruin that, hm?”

To Arthur’s great surprise, he sat back down. Must’ve cracked his head pretty hard to be so agreeable. The shock was likely evident on his face for John explained, “You’re right and I, well, I don’t want to ruin things like I usually do.”

Uncertain how to respond, Arthur left.

\--

The next hour and a half was spent doing periodic checks on Micah, sketching the view from their hotel room, and making a second trip to get an increasingly grumpy John more ice. When Arthur finally returned with the fallen paper clip, John was out the door before he had even pocketed the all-important item.

“Slow down, Marston. Don’t want to fall again. You may be blockheaded but I reckon that your skull can only take so much damage in a single evening.”

“Shut up and help me break in,” John scowled, leaning against Micah’s door.

“You ain’t breakin’ into nowhere. Go loiter ‘round the corner near the elevator. If he comes back early, let me know.”

“How should I alert you?”

“Whistle and then run back to our room. Alright? Don’t let him see you.”

John looked ready to argue but thought better of it. “Alright.”

The lock was easy to make short work of with a hairpin and Arthur smiled wide upon hearing the magical click. The number of times his criminal past had come in handy was rather embarrassing. Inside the layout was similar to theirs and almost as tidy, though there were some clothes strewn about and two empty bottles of whiskey. He began searching everywhere: opening cupboards and drawers, peeking under the furniture and behind closed doors, rummaging through his desk and closet. Among the more normal items like expensive cigars, spare change, and movie theater tickets were things like ammunition and a set of oddly-shaped knives that seemed designed to inflict as much pain as possible. Crazy bastard.

“What am I missing?” Arthur mumbled, standing in the middle of the suite.

He ran his hands along the bookshelf and furniture, searching in vain for hidden compartments. The main thing that struck Arthur was that for someone who had been staying here for a number of months, it didn’t seem that lived in. Maybe Micah simply didn’t collect a lot of material objects. Maybe Micah wanted to be able to pack up and leave at a moment’s notice. Needless to say, there was nothing of Heidi’s. No mementos. No pictures. Nothing.

When Arthur passed by the tall oak dresser just outside the bathroom again, he did a doubletake. Micah’s wallet was sitting there. Inside he found some cash and a small scrap of paper with a phone number on it. Heavy-handed with a rightward slant, this penmanship had been etched into his memory. He remembered being fourteen and watching Dutch write out words for him to copy, amazed at the fluid motion of his hand and how he didn’t even have to think much when he wrote. It was as natural as breathing for him. Arthur stole a pen from the desk and jotted down the number in his journal.

The door burst open. Arthur reached for his gun, but then saw it was John. “Are you tryin’ to get yourself killed?”

“He’s back already!” John rushed forward. “What do we do?”

Arthur looked down at the wallet in his hands. “Shit.” He tossed it back onto the dresser.

The doorknob jiggled. Arthur lunged forward, grabbed John’s wrist, and yanked him into the bathroom. The door had been left wide open so they had to press themselves as deep into the room as possible to make the most of what little darkness there was. This forced them to stand in the bathtub. Micah entered. Arthur and John stood side-by-side, barely breathing as they listened to him pace about the room; footsteps growing louder as he drew near. Unable to move John behind him, Arthur’s arm shot out to block him, while his other hand drew his Colt. He held the barrel firmly, ready to jump out of the tub and knock the bastard unconscious if necessary. Micah had his back to them though, standing before his bed and mumbling under his breath.

“Oh, for the love of—” Micah snatched his wallet off the dresser. He shot himself an annoyed look in the mirror before marching right back out.

They were silent and still until his steps in the hallway could no longer be heard. Once out of the bathtub, Arthur switched on the light. The two released a pair of uneasy exhales that sounded closer to laughter than exasperation. John came forward as he holstered his gun, his brows furrowed in a silent question. Arthur froze up when fingers lightly brushed the scar on his chin. Instinct told him to pull the curious hand away but his body had other plans. As John traced the shape, Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut. It had been a long, long while since someone had touched him so gently.

“Shrapnel,” Arthur muttered. “A parting gift from the Germans.”

His skin still burned from John’s touch after the hand fell away.

“Thought you were a vet.” He smiled at Arthur in that same way people always do when they found out about his time in the war. As if it was something to be proud of. “Got that sort of look about you.”

Arthur glimpsed at himself in the mirror. “Yeah, I suppose I do look like cannon fodder.”

John’s eyes lit up as he laughed. It was warm and genuine. The sort of sound you want to hear again and again. But that alone left Arthur unsettled, left his hands fidgeting at his sides. He needed a cigarette. Or a drink. Or both.

Not liking any of this one bit, Arthur tossed out harshly, “Whatever happened to whistling?”

“I blanked. I just kept thinking about him finding you and well—” He shrugged instead of finishing his explanation and was unable to meet Arthur’s annoyed stare. “Did you find anything?”

He sighed as the two went back out into the open. “Searched high and low but all I found was Dutch’s number. There’s nothing here to suggest he even knew Heidi.”

John shoved his hands in his pockets, face darkening as he meandered about the room. “Wish I hadn’t waited so long to contact you. He’s had two months to cover his tracks.”

“This isn’t a setback. Miss McCourt and Mr. Bell were supposedly together long enough for her mother and the press to consider them sweethearts. Yet he has nothing to remember her by and from what I could tell wasn’t really sad when Mr. Van der Linde brought her up. He seemed more impatient to get the conversation over with than anything.”

“I don’t rightly know what to think ‘bout all this.” John ran his fingers along the spines of books along the dusty bookshelf.

“Ain’t too sure what to think either but something’s off. Of that I am sure.”

“Huh. Seems Mr. Bell is a fan of Walt Whitman. _Leaves of Grass_ is the only book on this shelf that isn’t covered in dust.”

Arthur blinked and then immediately plucked it from the shelf. He flipped through and found another small slip of paper, this time bearing four sets of numbers.

“Combinations for a lock?” John suggested.

“Maybe. Could also be coordinates.” These numbers were also added to Arthur’s journal. “You got a sharp eye, Mr. Marston. I’ll give you that.”

John looked like he was ready to blurt out something but couldn’t muster up the courage to do so. Instead he gave Arthur a small, sad smile that said absolutely nothing and continued to bother him hours later. They had long since parted ways. John went off Beecher’s Hope while Arthur made his way over to Pearson’s for a quick dinner before deciding to walk back to the office. Fog long gone and air crisp, it was a fine night for it.

Neon signs and lonely streetlights lit the way as the streets grew less crowded the further north he ventured. The solitude was something to relish and that’s just what Arthur did. He thought about the case, about how strange the whole day had been, about the stack of newspapers waiting for him to dive into. Most of all he thought about John. When Arthur had agreed to help him, he had only been expecting to grapple with one mystery, not two. Arrogant and foolhardy one moment, then unsure and quiet the next. Maybe the former was meant to cover up the latter. Maybe the man was a puzzle and he didn’t have all the pieces yet. Arthur tried not to think about him, knowing that his thoughts would spiral into territory he’d rather not venture. Too bad he couldn’t just clear his mind and think of nothing as he walked.

It was also too bad that he was being followed.

Was it Micah? Perhaps. They were trying to be cautious, slipping by mostly unseen in the corners of his vision. In measured steps his pursuer hung far back enough that their intentions would not be obvious to an upstanding citizen—but Arthur knew that walk, knew how to remain close without detection. Whomever it was, they had done this before. Many times. Too bad for them, so had Arthur.

He didn’t pick up his pace or glance over his shoulder. A rookie mistake. Might as well wave at his pursuer if he were going to do something like that. Instead he watched him—Arthur was fairly certain it was a man—through reflections in the cars the drove by and darkened windows of buildings closed for the night. Arthur lit up and smoked absentmindedly, keeping his stroll leisurely until he ducked into a pitch-black alleyway. Arthur placed his still burning cigarette on one of the many iron fire escapes that zigzagged their way up numerous buildings in Blackwater, then ran up the lane.

His unwanted shadow hung near the entrance, keeping a close watch on the little light in the dark. Not realizing Arthur was no longer ahead but rather behind. He had gone around and snuck up on the man, grabbing him by the throat. He slammed his pursuer into the brick wall and dug into their trench coat. The gun he found got tossed aside.

He growled in their ear, “What do we have here?”

“It’s me, Arthur! Relax!”

“Lenny?” Arthur let go and stumbled backwards into the opposite brick wall. The whites of his bewildered eyes were the only thing Arthur could see of Lenny Summers. “The hell you think you’re doing, kid? I could’ve killed you.”

Lenny made his way back out into the moonlight, rubbing his neck gingerly. “Hey, I ain’t no kid! I’m nineteen.”

Always ready to get his hands dirty, be it sneaking booze past border patrol or helping Arthur when he needed a second man for something, he had always liked Lenny. Youthful and clean-cut, you’d never guess he belonged to the Matthews Outfit. Lenny was a good kid. Real sharp. Capable of so much more than just being a tool for the mob. He wouldn’t hear a word of that though. He was saving up for law school and was determined to pay his own way, having turned down the handout Hosea immediately offered when he discovered his youngest recruit’s ambitions.

Arthur retrieved Lenny’s gun and handed it back to him. “My mistake, Mr. Summers. You tend to forget how much wisdom one has at nineteen when you reach my advanced age.”

Lenny punched his shoulder with a chuckle. “Sorry about what happened back there. I was just—”

“Following orders, I know.” Arthur sighed deeply as the two resumed walking. “May I ask what the hell is Hosea playing at?”

“Mr. Matthews has just been worried about you, that’s all. Ever since he found out Dutch and Micah are working together.”

He stopped walking. Hosea knew damn well Arthur could take care of himself. Was he really worried or was he watching him for some other reason? “You tell him to quit it. I’m certain you and all his other employees all have better things to do than spy on me.”

“Sure, Arthur.” He laughed with a sheepish shrug. Sure, he could tell him that but whether Hosea listened was another story. “Hey, uh, how did I mess up? I don’t want to do that again.”

“I got a keener eye than most, don’t worry ‘bout it.” Arthur tapped Lenny’s hat. “But it was hard to not notice the same-shaped shadow that had been following me for some time.”

“Gotcha. I’ll take it off occasionally next time. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, kid.”

Lenny gave him a disgruntled look but his smile broke through and wrecked the whole thing. He left Arthur alone with his thoughts once more. If he was being honest, the company left much to be desired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


	6. Looking for Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A perfectly fine afternoon goes out the window once John takes issue with Arthur's ties to two gangsters. Their fight leads to them witnessing a break-in at the ferry terminal where the Matthews Outfit ship illicit alcohol in and out of Blackwater. They go to investigate and try to avoid getting caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing about film noir mysteries is that they tend to get convoluted as opposed to being straightforward. It's all gonna spiral from here folks so if anything is unclear, please feel free to ask for clarification. I shall try to answer my best without spoiling things. Also spot the two movie references, if you can!

Given how often their lunches slid right into it’s-five-o’clock-somewhere drinks, it was rare for Arthur, Albert, and Sean to be together and somewhat sober after a morning at the courthouse. Different reasons. Same case. Arthur gave a damning testimony having uncovered that an insurance salesman had collaborated with a scheming wife to profit off her husband’s not-so-accidental-death. As someone who had dealt with lawyers far more than any person who valued their sanity should, Arthur answered every question lobbed at his credibility like old Gehrig up at bat. Knocked them clean out of the park and practically seated the accused in the electric chair. Not that Arthur enjoyed any of it. When the case was adjourned only Albert’s insistence on “real food” kept him from leaping out of the witness box straight into a liquid lunch.

Now barricaded in his office with a gin in hand, feet parked on his desk, and sultry jazz flowing in through the open door, who could stay sour? To his left, sitting cross-legged on the couch and fingers gliding across his typewriter, Albert was oblivious to the world beyond his approaching deadline. Meanwhile Sean was spying on the street below for no other reason than he was nosy and was prattling on about the latest beauty who had caught his eye.

“I’m telling ya, Arthur. She’s gorgeous. Got this blonde hair with all these curls. Eyes green like the Emerald Isle herself. Breasts bigger than my—”

“Does this one know you exist?”

“Course she does! Introduced myself the moment I saw her at Grimshaw’s. May have laid it on a bit thick ‘cause she called me an idiot afterwards. But I can tell she likes me.”

“Did it occur to you,” Albert said as a little ding prompted him to slide the carriage back over, “that perhaps she likes you _because_ she works at Grimshaw’s?”

Sean peeled himself away from the window to wag a finger at their snickering. “Laugh it up, boys. One day you’ll both be green with envy when I have the best lookin’ woman in the city on my arm.”

After setting his empty glass precariously on the windowsill, Sean wandered towards the new map on the wall. It had cheap thumbtacks pressed into six different spots across West Elizabeth, New Hanover, and Lemoyne. “What’s all this?”

“Those coordinates came from Mr. Bell. Thinking ‘bout swinging by the one near Owanjila tomorrow afternoon.” Albert’s furious hands froze, but quickly resumed. Undoubtedly a plethora of animals had flashed through his mind’s eye. “Wanna come, Al? All expenses paid.”

“Only if my presence won’t inhibit your snooping, but yes, I’d love to.” Albert pulled the paper free with a satisfied sigh and shuffled it with the others. “Can’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday.”

“You need ta get out more, Mason,” Sean laughed richly, shaking his head. “What about me, English? Do I get an invite?”

“Trapped for hours in a car with you, MacGuire? I’m not _that_ much of a masochist.”

“Hey now! Mason here can’t even keep a sentence shorter than six words. He’ll talk your ears off long before I do!”

“That’s not true. I’m not _that_ verbose.” Albert paused to count his words and scowled at Sean who was grinning like a jackass. “In my defense, if Arthur told me to stop talking—which he wouldn’t because he has the patience of a saint—I’d actually respect his wishes.”

Sean shrugged. “Just as well. You’re both boring as shite anyways.” He plopped his hands on Arthur’s desk and leaned forward like an overly eager prosecutor. “Expenses paid, huh? Y’know I’m curious about this mysterious backer of yours.”

“Not much to tell except they drive me crazy.”

“Ah, so it’s a dame then! Sounds like your sorta girl. Plenty o’ sass to spare. Probably a real looker too. Want to keep her to yourself, eh Morgan? Didn’t think ya still had it in you, old man!”

His lips twisted into what Arthur knew was a sinister smile and Sean stepped back, laughing nervously. He kept quiet, purposely dragging out the uncomfortable moment until he simply asked, “Didn’t your afternoon shift start ten minutes ago?”

Sean blinked, then yanked his sleeve back to glance at his wristwatch. “Shit.”

Tragically, he rushed out before Arthur or Albert had a chance to laugh at him.

“I should head out as well. Gotta submit this before the evening edition.” Albert waved his report, then gestured with it towards the box full of newspapers by his feet. “Shall I take these?”

“Yes, thanks again. Miss Jackson and I were able to paint a fuller picture of Bell’s background.” Not the sort you could hang up in a gallery, what with the bank robberies, numerous assaults, and murdering folks alongside his father and brother.

The bell above the main doors chimed again. Sleek and stupidly handsome in dark red and black like some sort of modern devil sent up just to torment him, John strolled in like he owned the place. Not wanting the younger man to see him lazing about, his feet dropped to the floor abruptly and Arthur accidentally spilled the remainder of his drink on his tie. Albert’s brow quirked as Arthur grumbled at his own idiocy under his breath and roughly dabbed the stain with a handkerchief.

“Aside from our adventure into the wilderness tomorrow, do you think you could also assist me with another later on this month?” Albert asked as they left his office. “There’s this beautiful owl that has made its home in the Blackwater clock tower—”

“You’ll break your neck,” Arthur frowned, purposely ignoring how John had cleared his throat as if they couldn’t see him standing right there.

“Not if I have a knight-in-shining-armor ready to rescue me.”

“Sure, why not?” As if Arthur could ever say no to Albert.

John crossed his arms and huffed, “You gonna introduce us or not?”

“Sorry,” Arthur said without an ounce of sincerity. “I ain’t sure whether my friend here will be better off knowing you.”

“Probably not,” John admitted sheepishly.

“Perhaps I should be the judge of that.” His befuddled expression gave way to a smile Arthur didn’t like one bit. He held out his hand, “I’m Albert Mason. I write for the Blackwater Ledger.”

The tension in John’s body seemed to dissipate and they shook hands. “John Marston.”

After wishing everyone a good day, Albert turned to Arthur before leaving. “Seems only one of Mr. MacGuire’s guesses were wrong.”

Regret hit him like a slap across the face. Great. Another cross-examination to look forward to. Too smart for his own good, Albert had clearly deduced John was the infuriating man of means behind the McCourt case thanks to their teasing. His suit was a dead giveaway too. The fabric was well-cut and not stiff but rather draped his body. He even had a golden timepiece chain peeking out of his pocket.

Arthur sighed. “Whatchu want, Marston?”

“Not sure if I should answer that in front of a lady.”

Tilly snickered from her desk, looking up from filing her nails. “You don’t need to worry about offending my delicate sensibilities, Mr. Marston.”

Jesus. Everyone was against him today. Arthur shot Tilly a withering look before following John into his office. “Don’t encourage him.”

She scoffed, feigning offense. Once the door was shut, John had the decency to look somewhat apologetic, laying in wait by his desk with a bashful smile that knocked all the hot air out of Arthur. He needed a cigarette. Now.

“Guess you were right.” John nodded towards the map. “What do you think is there?”

“I usually am.” Arthur patted his pockets. “Could be anything. Safe houses. Stills. People with whom Bell’s connected. Buried treasure. Hell if I know. But I’ll find out.” He began to search his desk. “You gonna tell me now why you came? I assume you know how to use a phone.”

As Arthur reached for the cigarette case, John’s hand lightly pressed down on his and closed it once more. “Maybe I missed you.”

“Can’t say the feeling is mutual.”

John nodded towards their joined hands, leaning in with a smug grin. Then his nose scrunched up and wrecked whatever sly remark he had lined up. “You been hittin’ the bottle hard lately?”

Cheeks burning, Arthur pulled his hand free and tugged sharply at his tie. “Workin’ with you will do that to a man.”

Genuine laughter broke through that semi-permanent smirk of his and damn if it wasn’t endearing. John raised a hand hesitantly, reaching forward only when Arthur’s own fell away with a heavy eye roll. His nimble fingers worked on the offending article of clothing with care. It was kind of sweet in the way their brief tenderness in the hotel had been. You’d think his brain was a carousel with how often that moment had circled back to him over the past few days. Here it came around again and that alone told Arthur to pull John’s hands away. But he didn’t. Blame it on the gin. Blame it on curiosity too. John was sure to ruin the moment, but how?

“Figured I should do this seeing as how it’s my fault.” Head dipped in concentration, John looked up at Arthur from beneath his lashes. “Usually I have to butter up people a bit more before they let me undress ‘em.”

There it was. “Enjoy it. This is as far as you’ll ever get.”

John shoved the tie into his hands and it took every ounce of his willpower not to laugh in his disgruntled face.

“Listen, you can’t keep comin’ here. Whenever Dutch is around, Hosea always gets—” Arthur’s hand rolled in the air as if the motion could conjure up the right word. “—overprotective. He had me followed and I might still be under watch. What if someone sees you?”

“Someone already has. That’s why I came here. I’m being followed.”

Arthur swore under his breath and went to the window, searching for anyone loitering around or staring up at his office. No one stood out. “I _told_ you going to the hotel was a mistake. What’d they look like?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to get a good look.” If possible, his voice grew more hesitant. “You think he’s trying to hide something? Matthews, I mean.”

“What?”

“Well, you said yourself that Heidi may have gotten caught up in their feud. What if Matthews is having us watched ‘cause he, uh, you know, wants to stop us from getting too close to the truth?”

Arthur gave him a flat look. “That’s not his way.”

“He’s a _gangster_,” John dragged out the word as if saying it slower would help Arthur better comprehend it. “You think he’s been this successful for this long without having to silence people? Outside of the police, Van der Linde is the last person he’d want anyone to leak secrets to.”

“Marston—”

“You must really think I’m stupid, huh? You think I can’t tell that you’ve got ties to them both?” Too bad MacGuire wasn’t still here. The speed in which John went from calm to furious was worthy of a ticket. “Here I was thinking you had a blind spot a mile wide, but that’s not it. No, you’re trying to protect them!”

“Marston, will you—”

“You’re just some criminal disguised as a lawman, ain’t you?”

“You got me.” Arthur raised his hands in surrender. “Guess the jig is up. Had a good run though. Fifteen years and all.”

He scowled darkly. Rather than backtrack like most do when they got carried away, John doubled down. “Am I supposed to be impressed? Good deeds don’t make up for a wretched past.”

“You’re right. They don’t.” Arthur crossed his arms. “I don’t pretend to be a good man but I wonder though why you’ve been throwin’ yourself at me like a bitch in heat if you think I’m so depraved?”

John recoiled like he had been slapped. Arthur expected him to dole out the same, albeit in a more physical manner, but instead he bared his teeth. It was a nasty grin. More of a snarl than anything. “Maybe I like dangerous men.”

You’d think they were a pair of gunslingers. Air thick with hostility. Two opponents staring the other down. Fingers itching to pull the trigger. No shot were fired though; John made for the door. As maddening as he was, beneath the angry bluster was a plea for help that Arthur heard loud and clear and impossible to ignore. All fire and no brains, he had to stop him. Find a way to get John to stay here, stay safe, and work on a plan together to catch whoever was following him.

“You’re right, okay?” Arthur got there first. His arm shot out and held the door shut. “Hosea is like a father to me and Dutch, well, it’s complicated. I ain’t got no blind spot though and I’m not protecting no one ‘cept you, though I have to question why I even bother. It’s that I _know_ them. If they want someone to disappear, they disappear without a trace. Heidi’s murder was sloppy.”

John tried to shove past, but Arthur grabbed onto both his arms and shook him once out of frustration. “If you go looking for trouble, boy, you’re gonna wind up creating it yourself.”

“I’m already in trouble, you stubborn bastard,” John sneered. “Standing still won’t get me out of it.”

\--

Rhodes flickered in the distance. The far off city shone out in a darkness so all-consuming it was hard to tell where the water ended and the sky began. White dots were flecked across both, but only one had his ugly mug staring back at him. Arthur turned away, breathing out smoke as he rested his back against the rail. The crowd along the Blackwater Pier was slowly petering out. John stood next to him, uncharacteristically quiet with his hat low and hands deep in his pockets. Both had their eyes on the darkest corners, searching for a shadow that had been a no-show thus far.

“I still think sneaking into the Matthews Estate would’ve been better than this.”

“Marston, if you’re so hell-bent on suicide I have a gun you can use.”

It had taken a good while to unruffle John’s feathers. (Not all of them, he wasn’t a miracle worker). What had worked was his suggestion to lure his pursuer out by agreeing to go where John wanted—a place Hosea wouldn’t want them sniffing around. Together they carried on down the long boardwalk towards the ferry terminal. A tall, but narrow building with nautical touches inside and out, it was busy at all hours. Day brought people to and fro across Flat Iron Lake, whereas night saw illicit alcohol seep in and out of the city. Not wanting to get too close to any of the guards on patrol, Arthur was about to head back when a shadow slinking along the building’s white wooden panels stopped him. Not the person they were after, but Arthur wasn’t about to let this slide. He had two options: alert the guards and risk losing sight of the mysterious individual or investigate the matter himself.

The choice was obvious. If caught, he would just surrender and explain who he was. Arthur crushed his cigarette with his heel. “Go back to Beecher’s Hope.” John didn’t move. “I’m not asking.”

“Since when do I take orders from you?”

There was no time to argue. He sidestepped John, using the crates that were littered about the docks to conceal him as he crept forward. Stubborn as ever, John tagged along and managed to keep up. After two guards passed by, they hurried to the iron fire escape that the figure was quickly scaling. Two steps at a time, Arthur and John zigzagged their way up as the figure vanished inside the single door at the top. Upon reaching the third floor however, his partner grabbed onto the back of his trench coat and pulled him to the wall. An armed guard emerged from the door on the sixth floor. Shit.

“You have a gun,” John whispered in his ear, “keep an eye on the guard. I’ll get us in.”

The question of how died on his lips when John wiped out a switchblade. He dug it into the crevice along the bottom of the window behind them. Below the unsuspecting guard, John worked diligently, applying the right pressure as he rocked the knife slowly to wedge it in. Someone had done this before.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were entirely useless.”

John forced the window up. “Shut up and get inside.”

An empty hall of closed office doors greeted them. It was mostly quiet, save for the movement on the floor above. Could be another guard. Could be their breaking and entering accomplice. With most of Hosea’s employees down in shipping and receiving on the ground floor, he’d wager the latter. Caution was still practiced as they crept towards the stairwell. Up on the fourth, they were drawn towards the sole light at the end of the hall. Hosea’s office, if he recalled correctly.

“Hey there!” A man yelled. “Stop!”

Where the voice had come from was a mystery. Didn’t have a chance to figure it out though. Arthur only caught a glimpse of someone dashing out of the office before John grabbed his sleeve and shot off like a startled deer down the adjacent hallway. A flurry of noise erupted in all directions. Echoing yells. A piercing whistle. Their feet skidded on the floor as they rounded a sharp corner. Heavy footsteps battered up the stairs and grew louder as they drew near. Arthur tried to pull free, but then bullets started spitting. Getting caught in the crossfire was not on his list of things to do. Arthur shoved John into the first closet they came across.

Couldn’t have picked a worse one. A broom brushed against his back as it fell over and more than one tin bucket clattered against the floor. The space was already cramped without two grown men added into the mix. Arthur couldn’t see John but he could hear and feel him panting hard; their bodies flush. His breathing grew more agitated when a small group of people rushed by. It was impossibly loud, grating on his ears in the dark, tight space in which they were trapped. Arthur tried to shut him up. He wrapped an arm around John’s waist roughly and clamped a hand over his mouth. John tried his damnedest to break free, trying to throw him off while using his free hand to tug at the unwanted ones holding him tight.

“Calm down,” Arthur growled in his ear, ready to cuff John upside the head when he knocked their hats off.

He stopped and not a moment too soon. The heat between them and his writhing was stirring up something within that wasn’t as easy to repress as the sigh of exasperation weighing heavily on his tongue. Angry puffs of air still blew down over Arthur’s fingers. That should have been his first hint his stillness wouldn’t last, but Arthur didn’t clue in until a devious smile grew under his hand.

John’s hand shot out and braced against the wall, pushing back to grind his ass against Arthur’s burgeoning hardness. The things people do to get their way never ceased to amaze him. His breath hitched, caught somewhere in his throat as John now moved with intent. You’d think the layers in between would lessen the sensation, but it only fueled the fire shooting down his veins. Between his clothes and the closet, everything was too tight, too hot. John rocked against Arthur as if torture was the goal; punishment for having the audacity to not want them to get caught. A wretched sound, something between an annoyed grunt and a broken gasp came from Arthur before he could stop it. John’s soft moans escaped through the spaces between the loosening fingers over his mouth. Much like a bear awakening from hibernation, a ravenous hunger gnawed at his insides. He wanted more, wanted to let go and give in—but Arthur was never one to be guided by desire no matter how strong it was.

His hands abandoned their place and grabbed hold of John’s hips, wrenching him away. “You want us to get caught? What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem was that you had your hand on my mouth,” John shot back, his whisper equally venomous. “I no longer have this problem.”

“Goddamn son of a—”

“Don’t grab me like that next time,” he snapped, before laughing harshly. “I don’t know why you’re so mad. You seemed to enjoy it.”

Footsteps halted just outside the door, silencing Arthur’s rebuke. All movement within stilled.

“Are we trying to alert the police of our presence?” Hosea’s voice was as dry as ever and Arthur could imagine the weary look on his face. “No? Then why the hell are we having a shootout in a goddamn office building?”

As far as Arthur knew, Hosea had no history of heart problems but he was fairly certain that would change the moment he opened the closet door. On the plus side Arthur would die from embarrassment, leaving John to deal with the fall out.

An unknown male voice replied, “An intruder fired at us first, sir. We caught him coming out of your office.”

“Whoever it was, they were probably sent here by Dutch.” Hosea sighed, his voice growing fainter as he walked away. “Have the grounds searched and those bullet holes fixed.”

Neither moved until all the footsteps had gone their separate ways. His hands fell from John’s hips, prompting the younger man to turn and face him. Eyes having adjusted to the dark, both men were having trouble looking at the other. John’s mouth opened and shut a few times, but nothing came out.

“Leave it, Marston,” he grunted, shoving him aside as he left the closet.

Arthur didn’t want to talk about anything, certainly not about what had happened. For once John listened. After retrieving their fallen hats, he silently followed Arthur back to Hosea’s office. The man himself was inside, opening and closing different drawers by the sounds of it. Briefly Arthur considered going over to speak with him, but he had to keep John hidden. They remained around the corner until he left. The fact that Hosea didn’t seem too disconcerted led Arthur to believe the intruder didn’t take or leave anything. Odd. Maybe the intruder didn’t get the chance to complete whatever had brought them here in the first place. Arthur wanted to leave, but John approached the office.

“Did you bring that hairpin?”

“What possible reason is there to break into there?”

“To satisfy my curiosity?” John replied as if was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Christ’s sakes.” Arthur pushed John aside and knelt down with the pin in hand. “When we find nothin’, I don’t want to hear you open that mouth of yours for the rest of the night.”

After picking the lock, Arthur leaned against the wall and watched John poke around the room. Illuminated only by moonlight through the windows, John moved carefully. Aside from a large oak desk and numerous filing cabinets, the spacious corner office was sparsely furnished. It lacked a personal touch since it was just a front, existing only as part of their cover up of what they were really shipping in and out of Blackwater.

John picked up a picture frame inside of the top-right desk drawer. “Aww, you were so cute. What happened?”

He snatched the photo. It was from Hosea and Bessie’s wedding day with a much younger and happier Arthur standing in between the newlyweds. In no mood to give a history lesson, he placed it back in the drawer and flung it shut. John’s eyebrows raised and he backed away, choosing to explore a filing cabinet instead. Arthur went to the balcony door, opening it to fully admire the view of the crescent moon and the water below.

After a minute of rummaging, John spoke up. “Come look at this.”

Beneath the thick file folders full of tax forms and old receipts was an old Smith & Wesson Model 10 and what appeared to be a couple of photos. Pictures in hand, Arthur returned to the door to see them better. They were of an unsuspecting Heidi walking down a street. Based on the Christmas lights lining the store windows in the background, these were probably taken not long before her death.

Arthur rubbed his eyes and gave the photos to John. “This might just be the worse set-up I’ve ever seen.”

“Set-up? How do you figure?”

“Use your head, Marston. Would you keep evidence like this in your office if you murdered someone?”

“Well, no.”

“Exactly.” Arthur went back to the filing cabinet. “How much you want to bet that’s the gun responsible for her death?”

John returned the photos to him. “You think that intruder planted the evidence?”

“That’s exactly what I think.”

Face full of confusion, John slouched against the wall. “Why waste time framing Matthews for murder when there are tons of other crimes he could be prosecuted for?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Looks like you were right about him. God. I feel like an idiot.”

Not wanting to start anything, Arthur kept his thoughts to himself and placed the photos back in the cabinet and closed it. “I’m gonna sneak you out and then I’ll come back and speak with Hosea about everything.”

Arthur reached for the doorknob, but muffled voices had him snatch his hand away as if burned. With the balcony as their only hiding spot, out they went. They couldn’t stay here though. One glimpse out the door window and they would be seen. When Arthur leaned over the side of the balcony, John flew into a panic.

“No. Hell no.” John grabbed the lapels of his coat. “We’re not jumping.”

“Relax. I was thinking more about climbing down from one balcony to the next.” John backed away, bumping into the door, shaking his head. “Get away from that door.” John shifted to the right just as a light turned on inside. “What? You scared of heights? C’mon, Marston. It’s only four floors and if we fall, well, hopefully that water is deep enough.”

“I can’t swim!” he blurted out in a frustrated whisper. Arthur waited for John to say he was joking before his hand flew up to smother his laughter. “Shut up. This isn’t funny.”

Arthur climbed over to the other side, hanging onto the railing. “Oh, trust me. It is.” He lowered himself down carefully, feet dangling briefly until they located the next iron banister. “Look, I’ll climb down first and grab ya when you come down. You won’t fall in.”

It took a bit of maneuvering, the bricks below the upper railing gave him something to balance against as he lowered himself further down onto a third floor balcony. Arthur then leaned back against the bars, looking up at John who was climbing over the railing at a snail’s pace.

“I’d like to get outta here before sunrise.”

“Shut up!”

When John finally got both feet over, he glanced down at Arthur for reassurance; eyes bulging comically when they lingered too long on the water below. He reached up, ready to grab his legs once he got close enough. John began to lower himself down when his head snapped up. Whatever had caught his attention had startled him and he let go of the railing. Arthur watched John fall straight into the water with a terrified yelp and disappear into its depths.


	7. Sand Seeping Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur really wants to go to bed, but things like John falling into the lake, Hosea spending half the chapter sassing him, and revelations about both the case and his partner-in-crime keep getting in the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to thank everyone who enjoyed, commented, and gave kudos for the previous chapter. I deeply appreciate all of the support this story as gotten and I'm hope you will all continue to enjoy it. <3

John floated like a man wearing cement boots. Lost somewhere beneath the surface, every second that passed by without him emerging from the water squeezed Arthur’s chest tighter and tighter, robbing him of air and words. Hanging onto the iron rail, Arthur leaned over as far as possible without falling in himself, hoping to catch a glimpse of a struggle below the waves. No splashes. No ripples. Nothing. The lake had swallowed John whole. Off his hat, coat, and suit jacket went. Considering he was about to jump into water that may be too shallow and John might already be dead, it’d be fair to say Arthur cast aside his common sense too.

Down, down, down he went. Water rushed up, flooding his senses and chilling him to the bone. It stung something fierce. Like thousands of tiny needles were piercing him from every angle, carving into his skin. He tried to block it out, warp his pain and fear into motivation to find John faster. Where was he? Arthur swam up for a big gulp of air, before diving back down. Dark and murky, he may as well have been swimming through ink. Arthur searched for anything solid; anything that wouldn’t slip through his outstretched fingers.

Thin fabric swaying in the current brushed against his palm. He excitedly grasped what felt like a coat belt. Now loose and lost, it became his compass needle. Arthur swam forward. Underwater waves began to sweep over him as a blurred, thrashing figure came into sight. John was tugging desperately at his waterlogged trench coat, fumbling with the buttons in his panic. Arthur couldn’t see much but he could see the raw terror in the younger man’s eyes.

His frantic movements cost him dearly, John had slowed by the time he arrived. Arthur pulled and pulled until the coat ripped open. The buttons floated away, drifting past limp limbs and a slack mouth that air no longer bubbled out of. Trying not to panic himself Arthur grabbed John and brought their lips together, blowing air into his mouth. He slammed his eyes shut in a silent prayer. Please work. _Please_ _work_. Don’t let him die. Arthur couldn’t bare the thought of another person dying because of his foolishness. Relief surged through him when John responded, lips moving against his as he shimmied out of his coat. The moment he was free, Arthur wrapped his arms around him and kicked hard towards the surface.

When they broke through, Arthur filled his lungs greedily until they were near ready to burst. His head swiveled, stopping on the shore south of them. They had drifted a bit, but not enough to be a cause for concern. Arms now free, he tried to swim for the shore. Easier said than done with a fully grown man clinging to him like a koala bear.

“Use your goddamn legs!” Arthur half-yelled, half-sputtered thanks to the waves slapping his face.

It was to no avail. John coughed like his throat was being torn open; choking on air and water alike. His ragged gasps were cut painfully short as mouthful after mouthful came up.

Arthur didn’t fear death. He had stared it straight in the eye too many times not to consider it an old, surprisingly patient friend. Death would have to go on waiting though. With no plans for a watery grave, he mustered up his last bit of strength and powered through to the shore. Probably swallowed a gallon of water with John weighing him down. Hardly mattered though once his fingers touched dirt. Arthur bucked John off his back with all the pent up frustration of a worn out bull and collapsed into a heap.

He was too old for this shit.

Heart still beating furiously, Arthur simply lay there. One breath after another with his forehead pressed to the earth, it felt like an eternity has passed before his heaving chest eased. It was worse for John. Hunched over and clutching onto his stomach he retched up a belly full of water; body seizing up with every violent cough.

“Marston, look at me.” Arthur rolled over, wincing as every muscle within protested. “Calm down. You gotta breathe.”

“What the hell—” John coughed hard when he received several whacks to the back. Probably didn’t help, but hey, it made Arthur feel better. “—do you think I’m tryin’ to do?”

Ah, good. The ungrateful bastard was going to be just fine. John spat out some more water, then dragged the back of his hand across his mouth before curling in on himself. Arms locked around his legs, troubled stare fixed on his knees, you’d think he was trying to shrink himself out of existence. He was still breathing heavily despite his coughs having subsided. The right thing would be to, you know, say something. But Arthur was as good at that as John was at staying out of trouble. Some tiny, ridiculous part of his inner being wanted to pull him closer. At the mercy of the night air, it was a damn wonder you couldn’t hear their bones rattling under their skin. Arthur laughed to himself. What fools they were. A pair of drenched rats sitting and shivering just beyond the faint shadow of the ferry terminal.

“C’mon,” he nudged John’s shoulder slightly with his fist. “Let’s go.”

John didn’t move, of course, because he just _had_ to make everything difficult.

“You saved me,” he mumbled, face lost behind scraggly black hair as his head hung low until he lifted his gaze. “Why?”

Brows knitted and expression grim, who knew what John was thinking. Did John really think he’d just let him die? Was his opinion of him that low? Perhaps it was better not to know. There was never any other option in his mind but to save him. He should have put his foot down, should have not let his idiot-in-crime get anywhere near the ferry terminal. John could have died twice tonight all because Arthur couldn’t say no. His gaze was unwavering; the only warm thing left about him. It made him wonder if they were doing the same thing: searching for answers but finding only questions staring back. They were close. Too close. Now was the time to put some space between them, but Arthur remained still. For he was cold and selfish and full of want for things he didn’t deserve.

“It’s bad for business if a client dies,” Arthur grunted after far too long a moment, gripping John’s arm tightly and forcing them both to stand. “Let’s go. I ain’t gonna freeze to death on account of you being a brat.”

“Oh, shut up.” John ripped his arm away, teeth bared as his perpetual undercurrent of anger came back to the surface. He was definitely going to be alright. “This is all your goddamn fault. Climbing down balconies. What a stupid idea that was.”

“And what, letting go was some stroke of genius? Maybe I should’ve let your dumb ass drown.” Arthur rolled his eyes as John pouted like a child at his ruined suit. “Can’t swim. Can’t follow basic instructions—”

“How is it my fault two men with shotguns showed up?”

Arthur snorted. “How does a man go twenty-six years without learning to swim?”

John roughly wiped the dripping hair still plastered to his face aside before stomping ahead. “No one ever cared enough to teach me.”

Despite his foot being firmly in his mouth, Arthur managed to make it up the rocky slope. It led them back to the dim streetlights of Sisika Avenue, full of closed storefronts and darkened alleyways beckoning them forward. Well after midnight, the street was mostly barren and silent save for those up to no-good. In other words, themselves, and whoever was fast approaching. Two men with light footsteps and low voices. Given the time, location, and their rotten luck, Arthur would put his chips on them being Hosea’s men. Guess it was time to take another chance that might end poorly.

“Go to Beecher’s Hope.” Somehow this simple sentence made John puff up like a rooster, clearly squaring up for an argument. “This ain’t up for debate.”

He placed his hands on John’s damp back and shoved him into an alleyway. Hissed curses followed, before John began calling out his name in frantic whispers. Arthur ignored him all the same.

Let’s see what else this night had in store.

\--

“Let me get this straight. You were out for a stroll, saw someone breaking into the terminal, and rather than alert anyone you decided to follow them.” Hosea paused to cough, then cleared his throat. “Then after the shootout you broke into my office to see if I missed anything and then sneaked back out by climbing down the balconies like some hapless monkey, only to fall into the lake.”

“Yes.”

Hosea rubbed his eyes. “Where did I fail you?”

Who needed an electric heater and a thick blanket to ward off hypothermia when mortification can heat up a body just as well? Back in the older man’s office, Arthur had half a mind to run and dive right off the balcony again if only to quell his burning skin. Never one for an audience especially when his idiocy was the star of the show, for Hosea, Kieran, and Lenny to have front row seats, well, maybe drowning wouldn’t have been so bad after all.

“Ain’t your fault. Can’t fix someone who was born a fool.”

“Well, you got me there.”

Arthur smiled in spite of himself. This was the sort of embarrassment that would come back years later and make him cringe just as hard. Escape wasn’t in the cards though, what with being buck naked and all. Clothes hanging on a makeshift line above he glared up at them, thoroughly annoyed he couldn’t will them to dry faster. Hosea must have sensed Arthur was weighing the pros and cons of a public indecency charge, for two fingers worth of overpriced brandy from his desk drawer found its way into his hands.

Kieran spoke up. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just exit the building normally? No one here would’ve stopped you.”

“What I don’t understand is why _you’re_ here, O’Driscoll. This don’t concern you or Mr. Summers.”

“I ain’t an O’Driscoll!”

“Ignore him.” Hosea gave Arthur a look of fond exasperation, placing a hand on his shoulder. It was a look Arthur had used himself many times—on his late dog, Copper, whenever the rascal got up to mischief. “He gets cranky when he’s tired.”

“He must always be tired then,” Lenny teased, causing the others to laugh.

“Putting up with fools like you would leave anyone tired.” Patience left at the bottom of the lake; damp clothes be damned! Arthur wrapped the blanket around him tighter and made to get up.

Hosea’s grip became firm. “Don’t go. You obviously have something to tell me if you willingly came forward and didn’t hide from these two.”

Arthur lowered himself back to the floor. “I do, it’s just…”

Despite his interactions with John, he was determined to maintain _some_ form of professionalism with regards to the case. Arthur wasn’t suspicious of the younger men—if Hosea trusted someone that was usually good enough for him—but confidentiality was important. Too many people whispering about Heidi, or worse, about Dutch, would only spell more trouble both he and John didn’t need.

Trust Hosea to put two-and-two together. “On second thought, gentlemen, I’d like to have a private conversation with my tight-lipped son.” He smiled warmly. “Why don’t you two go home? It’s been a long night.”

Naturally, Lenny and Kieran didn’t object. Arthur waited until he was sure they had left and weren’t eavesdropping to speak up. “You check that middle filing cabinet in your search earlier?”

“No, the cabinets are for show. The papers inside are all fabrications. Why?” Hosea didn’t wait for an answer and opened the top drawer. The contents inside got a good, long stare before he started laughing. Arthur had expected bafflement or denial, not this. “Well son, if you still got that old pair of handcuffs on you, I’ll come quietly.”

“How can you laugh at someone tryin’ to set you up?”

“How can you not? This is ridiculous. How am I supposed to be arrested for a crime written off as a suicide by the police themselves?”

“The planted evidence was for me to find, not the cops. Tryin’ to get me off their scent and on yours instead, only they probably didn’t count on me catching ‘em in the act.” Arthur sipped his brandy, purposely delaying his next words. Its warmth pooled uneasily in his stomach. “You do make a good suspect, I suppose. Mob boss orders a hit on a rat for leakin’ secrets to their enemy.”

“A compelling theory if Miss McCourt actually had secrets to share.” Hosea didn’t look offended, but he wandered to the window and stared out with a morose expression. The moonlight made caverns of the lines of his face, aging him far beyond his years. “Did Micah see you when you were at the Blackwater Hotel?”

“No, I made sure of that. Suppose someone else could’ve.” Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Y’know I nearly broke the kid’s neck when I caught him followin’ me.”

“I know. I hope you apologized to him.”

He opened and shut his mouth a few times before mustering up a response. “Hosea, I don’t need you spyin’ on me. I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.”

Why does defending one’s adulthood always leave him feeling like he’s fifteen again?

“Despite your current appearance,” Hosea said dryly, gesturing towards his huddled form beneath the heavy green wool. “I don’t doubt that. I’m just worried, that’s all. We might as well speak plainly. You and I both know Dutch is behind all this.”

His own words came back to him like a bad memory Arthur desperately wished he could forget. Heidi’s murder was sloppy, he had said to John, as if it absolved his two mentors of the murder. It hadn’t occurred to him until tonight that maybe it was supposed to be sloppy, maybe it was supposed to be easy to expose the truth. Her death was a weapon.

“I don’t like to jump to conclusions,” Arthur countered, even though that was exactly what he was thinking.

“Conclusions are fickle and can easily be rewritten.” Hosea went back to his desk and poured himself a healthy shot. “We both know he’s behind all this. Dutch can’t ever leave well enough alone. Every five years or so he tries to provoke me into a war and tries to lure you back into the fold. He’s never gotten over you choosing me over him.”

Arthur thought back to his last conversation with Dutch. How despite everything—all the pain, all the time that had passed—the space at his side was always open and waiting for him. “He made the choice for me as far as I’m concerned.”

The two shared a smile that was full of old hurt. Some wounds never heal. They just sit there on the surface of your skin. A scab just waiting to be picked at.

“It’s just,” Arthur continued, “this feels different. Having an innocent woman killed just to start shit? I don’t know. Just don’t seem like Dutch.”

“You sure about that?” Down the brandy went without so much as a wince. “I figure he’s trying something different this time ‘round. He’s learned the hard way that attacking me directly is suicide.” He looked up. “Any chance you know how long Dutch and Micah have been working together?”

“Newspapers place him across West Elizabeth and New Austin over the past year, so I’d wager about that. What’s interestin’ is the cops nabbed him for a triple homicide just north of Valentine in October but he was a free man come early December.”

“Hm. Dutch must’ve pulled some hefty strings.” Hosea slid the bottle towards him and Arthur topped off his drink. “I wish I knew what he was thinking.”

He choked on his brandy. Hosea quirked an eyebrow, shooting for confusion but Arthur saw clean through it. “I know what you’re gonna ask, Hosea. You _know_ how I feel about that.”

“I’m not asking anything of you, Arthur. All I’m saying is that I wish I knew what Dutch was planning so I could put a stop to it before it gets out of hand.” He shrugged. “I can wait though. His plans will come to light soon enough.”

Sure, Hosea would never outright ask him to poke into Dutch’s business, but he would plant the idea in his mind just the same. Let it take root, grow, and fester until it was a monster of its own that could no longer be contained, let alone ignored. Sometimes Arthur wished the two would stop toying and dancing around with each other and just deal a knockout punch. Other times he felt wretched for harboring such thoughts. Despite all of his provocations Dutch had never been able to lure Hosea into a war. Gang violence was a self-inflicted wound, Hosea would contend, it did nothing except tear apart families, hurt his bottom line, and benefit the police. Whenever the mosquito popped up, looking for more blood to draw, the older man always batted him away as opposed to crushing him. Arthur wanted that to happen once more, but Detective Morgan knew it was too late. Things were already out of hand.

Arthur tried to conceal his slowly building resentment by inspecting his semi-dry clothes. They needed more time, but unlike Hosea he was not a patient man.

“Curious she was shot with an old police revolver.” Wearing leather gloves, Hosea examined the suspected murder weapon. He placed the gun in a bag and emptied a file folder for the photos before giving both to Arthur. “Remember when you and I had a pair of these always at our sides?”

“Yeah, those were the days,” Arthur replied, the wistfulness in his voice sounded odd to his own ears. “Before the war and all. Back when you were still pretendin’ to be a good man.”

Hosea laughed and opened the door, bending down to pick up something. “For a former actor, I’ve always been terrible at charades.”

Forever curious he tried to peek around Hosea, his body was blocking the mysterious bundle. Arthur’s face and spine went perfectly straight however when the older man turned around.

“Before you go. Here.” Hosea handed him his coat, jacket, and hat with a sly smile. “Fell off when you fell in, I suppose.” He waved him off before Arthur could come up with a half-decent lie, chuckling as he left the office.

Both had a bad habit of letting the other get away with far more than they should.

\--

Fabric sticking to his skin uncomfortably and the corners of his vision blurred ever-so-slightly, Arthur made his way back to his car as fast as he could. As much as he wanted to sleep, deep down he knew his rapid fire thoughts would deny him that privilege.

Too many questions without answers. Too many holes that had yet to be filled. Heidi was just a pawn sacrificed for some future move Dutch had up his sleeve. The police were paid to keep quiet until the time was right to air the truth, or at least their version of it. Arthur’s involvement threw a wrench into their plans and tonight was about getting him off their scent. But why go through with a murder charge? It wouldn’t hold up in court nor weaken the Matthews Outfit. Why have someone shadow John if Arthur was the one they were worried about? Dutch had followers, not employees, who were loyal to a fault but Hosea had the manpower to squash them. What could he gain from all this? All these uncertainties felt a bit like trying to hold onto sand and watching it seep away between his fingers until he was left empty-handed.

Finding John leaning against his old blue sedan—this is what he gets for parking it behind the speakeasy—didn’t improve his mood. Arms crossed and head bowed, it was odd to see someone so slick and sleek appear unkempt. Whoever he borrowed clothes from definitely wasn’t his size. White shirt too tight, black pants too baggy, and dark hair a disaster from rubbing a towel roughly against it—Arthur made a mental note to tease him later on.

He perked up upon spotting Arthur, though his keenness soon faltered. “What’s wrong?”

“Go home.” He dug into his trench coat for his keys. “We’ll talk another time.”

“No, we’re gonna talk now,” John said, matter-of-factly. “Tell me what happened.”

“What’s wrong?” Arthur abandoned his search. “What’s wrong is you’ve gotten us into the middle of a goddamn gang war, that’s what.”

He did a double-take. “What are you talking about?”

Arthur wasn’t one to air his grievances. He couldn’t bring himself to tell John how frustrated he was at being caught between Dutch and Hosea. Again. Worse yet, trying to stop whatever was going to happen between those two was like standing with your arms spread wide to block an avalanche. If Arthur wasn’t careful, he and John and who knows how many others would get swept away and buried by the onslaught.

“This whole thing is just Micah and Dutch tryin’ to goad Hosea into a fight they can’t win. Tonight was about getting us off their scent. Things are going to get bad, Marston. Real bad. You should get out now while you still can. Hell, I oughta skip town ‘til the dust settles.”

He could practically hear the alarm bells going off in John’s head. Rather dramatically, he grabbed Arthur’s shirt. “I’m not going anywhere and neither are you. You can’t quit. What about Heidi? What about the police? If we don’t do something, what’s to stop it from happening again and again?”

“Nothing,” Arthur muttered, prying the unwanted hands away. Undeterred, John continued to block the car door. “But that don’t mean you gotta get dragged any further down into this mess. You can still get out and should—if you know what’s good for you.”

“I’m in it. Same as you. Jumped in with both feet when I barged into your office.” John was doing that thing where he leaned in real close, close enough so that the heat of his body graced Arthur. It left his throat parched and hackles raised. “Let’s just keep at it, alright? We’ll figure things out. You’ll see. We can’t give up now.”

“It’s late,” Arthur grumbled, abruptly stepping back and pulling out his keys. “We should get going.” John nodded but instead of walking over towards his brand-new red and black Cadillac, he appeared to be heading back to his bar. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, uh, just going back to work.”

They weren’t even standing next to each other anymore but the waves of anxiety pouring out of John right now might just be stronger than what Flat Iron Lake had to offer. If he was ever arrested, the cops wouldn’t need to strap him to one of those polygraph machines to know when he was lying. Got all squirrelly and tripped over his words like a drunk stumbling around in the dark.

“It’s after three in the morning.” Arthur open his car door slowly but didn’t get in. “Beecher’s Hope is closed.”

John scratched the back of his head, trying to avoid Arthur’s searching stare under the flickering street light. “I don’t want to wake up anyone at home.”

Arthur blinked, not sure if he heard him correctly. “You live with someone?”

“Yeah, um, this girl—woman! I mean. I live with a woman. Or well, technically she lives with me. It’s kind of a funny story actually…”

“Marston!” Arthur slammed his car door shut and stormed over. “I swear if you’ve been married this whole time I’m gonna kick your ass on your wife’s behalf.”

“No! No! We’re not married. Honest!” John backed away from Arthur, only to bump into a brick wall. A wet dog caught tracking mud all over the kitchen couldn’t have looked more guilty than he did. “We’re just living together because, well, she’s kinda the mother of my child.”

Leaving that bottle of brandy behind was a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, Arthur's car is the [1928 Ford Model A](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8c/1928_Ford_Model_A_55A_Tudor_Sedan_PRF843.jpg) and John owns the [1930 Cadillac V16](https://rmsothebys-cache.azureedge.net/a/1/a/d/4/d/a1ad4d5bbac4ec58530f0d490393ec1c035a0f0e.jpg).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	8. Look, Don't Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur meets Abigail and bonds with her over their love of roasting John. Meeting Jack however brings back old memories he would rather forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The changes I've made to the Marstons will make a lot more sense down the line. I'm happy to address any questions though and will try to do so without spoiling things.
> 
> Thank you as always for your wonderful comments, kudos, and patience. <3

Some idiot was blaring his car horn. Loud enough to wake the dead, it was only appropriate that Arthur rose with a groan. Tempted as he was to flop face-first back into his pillow, the clock said half past nine and who was he to argue? He staggered over to the mirror; memories from last night floating just above his head and out of grasp. They could stay up there. Collect some cobwebs for all he cared. Eyes bleary and bagged. A face full of scruff. Still in yesterday’s clothes. His reflection may as well have reached out and slapped him. It would’ve stung as much as the harsh truth that he was on the wrong side of his thirties and had long lost the ability to escape the consequences of hard nights.

The ice cold shower that followed didn’t help much but at least it washed away the stench of the lake. Now at his desk, Arthur flipped past the most recent pages of his journal. Notes from the police report. Beecher’s Hope spread across two. A sketch of John he spent far too long on. He jotted down some thoughts beneath a quick drawing of his soaked clothes hanging to dry. There were more question marks than he liked. A soft creak came from his living room and suddenly there was an ugly swoosh across the paper. John. He tossed the pencil aside. Until now Arthur had forgotten he had brought that sorry bastard home. As with most strays, it was the pitiful puppy dog eyes that did him in.

Having refused to “steal an old man’s bed,” John was out cold and scrunched up on the lone couch. Guilt sent Arthur back into his bedroom to retrieve a blanket. Part of him wondered why he was going beyond the call of duty to help the most troublesome client he had in years. The other part warned him not to explore that question any deeper. After yesterday’s chaos and the revelation about a secret family, he should be furious with John. But he wasn’t. His anger had worn itself out. For now.

As he laid it on top of him, one eye opened. “Rather have you warm me up.”

Arthur threw the blanket over his face. John laughed and stretched. Hair mussed up, clothes crinkled, and expression dopey, guess Arthur wasn’t the only one in dire need of a cup of coffee. Or three.

“Thanks for—” John gestured lamely at the couch, speaking around a wide-mouthed yawn, “—everything.” Against his better judgement, Arthur sat down and shrugged. “I mean it. About the case too. I don’t rightly know what I’d do if you quit.”

He fell quiet, embarrassed by how his resolve had wavered in the face of the unfolding disaster. Arthur wasn’t one to cut and run. Especially when Hosea and Dutch were involved. No, he was going to keep digging the hole he found himself in even if it caved in and buried him alive. All he had to do was make sure John and his family got out before it did.

“Sure,” Arthur said slowly. “I ain’t the sort of man who’d leave another alone with the wolves.”

John gave him a strange look, before pulling up the blanket as he surveyed the apartment. Didn’t take long. The place was small. Not like Arthur needed much space anymore. “You been here long?”

Between the sparse furniture and even fewer decorations, it was more like a hotel room than a home of five years. Didn’t help there were lots of neutrals and whites too—the landlord’s doing, not his. There were some personal touches. A jar with a flower. A picture of his mother. His father’s old hat upon the bookshelf. A photo of Copper on the wall. If there was a fire, those are what Arthur would grab—right after collecting the overstuffed photo album tucked away in the corner of his closet.

Truth was he felt more at home at work than here. “Long enough.”

The sun seeped in through the curtains, casting John in light and shadows. Arthur lingered on the three freckles upon his left cheek; how dark his irises really were and the heat within them. His fingers twitched. Perhaps in envy of the way his own eyes were able to trace all the parts of John they could not. If he could, Arthur would touch those scars of his. Too haphazard for a knife’s blade, claws were the only other possibility. Arthur lacked the imagination though to dream up how a city boy like John wound up in such a situation. Maybe he had a secret fondness for the outdoors like Albert and Arthur had done them both a disservice by not properly introducing the two.

“Like what you see?” John teased.

“Haven’t decided yet.” You’d think a detective would be better at not getting caught red-handed. Then again, his attraction towards the sly bastard had never been much of a secret. To think he ever thought there could be some semblance of professionalism between them. “Suppose I need a longer look.”

John dipped his head, which didn’t conceal his smirk in the slightest.

“Didn’t think you were the type to fish for compliments,” Arthur said dryly. “It’s a fine face. In a certain light.” He tilted his head. “Guess I’m more curious about what’s behind it. That takes time to figure out.”

Maybe it would’ve been kinder to stay away from that particular truth; keep things light and easy. Whatever response John had been expecting, that wasn’t it. That sad smile of his came back. The one that irritated Arthur because he couldn’t decipher it. That’s what had him hooked. The intrigue. Even though he was fairly certain the line was sinking him further into the depths like an anchor rather than up to the surface. Arthur wanted to know more and more but John was the sort of open book that seemed to gain new pages every time he finished a chapter.

The smile vanished almost as soon as it appeared; predatory once more. Like John couldn’t allow the two of them to walk too far down that path, lest they discover something disagreeable. John went right back to pushing his luck, dragging a lazy finger along his stubble.

“You should grow out your beard.” May as well have been a hot brand with how his skin began to sear. “Bet you’d look real fine.”

Damn him. Arthur couldn’t even toss out a rebuff. Compliments always left his tongue parched of words. Maybe that’s why he was terrible at doling them out as well. One finger became five, cupping his jaw while his thumb skirted the corner of his lips. Arthur hated how much he wanted to lean into his touch, how much he wanted to mirror John’s movements. That desperate moment in the closet came back so swiftly it almost swept him off his feet. Nerves got the better of him and he knocked the hand away. Regret set in hard as John’s brows furrowed with hurt.

“Is this about Abigail and Jack?” he blurted out. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I thought—”

“Abigail? Abigail Roberts?” The newspaper article with her name flashed in his mind’s eye, as did John’s hesitation when Arthur asked him about her. A loud exhale blew from his nose and John tensed up, ready to bolt. “You thought what? That living with a fellow witness isn’t, oh I don’t know, something worth mentioning?”

“I thought you wouldn’t be interested if you knew I had a family!” John said, as if his explanation was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Thinking with your cock as usual,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Guess it’s to be expected when you ain’t got much of a brain to use.”

“I’m surprised you even know that word.” John scoffed. He threw the blanket off and stormed over to the kitchen. “Does yours even work anymore? Or has it been so long that it just shoots out dust?”

Arthur sat there stunned. Newspaper soaked with alcohol couldn’t flare up near as fast as John. Cupboards were hastily thrown open as he searched the kitchen, cursing under his breath the whole while. Yelling at someone in the midst of a temper tantrum was a sure-fire way to make it swell into an all-out blaze, so Arthur forced himself to speak calmly.

“I’m not what you want, Marston.”

“Well then you’re stupider than you look,” John spat out, rummaging through his pots and pans more roughly than necessary.

He sighed heavily again, crossing his arms. Arthur kept desire at arm’s length; the world and all its beauty barred off like artwork at a gallery. Look, don’t touch. It was safer. For Arthur couldn’t bare for something priceless to shatter again by his own hand. Maybe he should try to explain it. But John, who went after everything he wanted without a second thought, who was currently grumbling about how indecisive Arthur was, wouldn’t understand.

“If your goal is to wake my neighbors you’re doing a bang up job of it. It’ll be you answering the door though if they come knocking.” John gave him a dirty look but settled down a bit. He even placed two coffee mugs on the counter instead of one. “Didn’t figure you for the domestic type.”

“I’m not,” John confessed, husky voice still drenched with bitterness. He reached inside the fridge. “But I like to have a nice breakfast every now and then. With you sittin’ on your ass and the fact Abigail can’t cook for shit—” John abruptly pulled his head out, smacking his skull along the way. “Don’t tell her I said that!”

\--

Color him surprised. After retrieving his Cadillac, John led him not to some obnoxiously fancy house in the classier part of Blackwater, but rather another apartment in the newest district. While Arthur’s building was a big white slab where a murder in the stairwell wouldn’t seem out of place, this one was straight out of a storybook. Striped awnings over the windows, walkway lined with flowers soon to bloom, and a park full of young families around the corner. The whole area was cute, uniform even. Likely the result of Blackwater’s ongoing desperation to leave its frontier city image in the dust; forever trying to prove that it was as modern as Saint Denis or any of the big eastern cities. Arthur felt so out of place he almost didn’t leave his car. John had a similar bout of immobility, though he suspected it was for an entirely different reason.

“C’mon, Marston.” Arthur knocked at his window. “I’m dying to meet the woman who’d willingly have a child with you.”

John smacked the car door right into Arthur as he stepped out. “Oh.” His smile was as sweet as a cocktail. One laced with arsenic, that is. “Sorry.”

Their bickering lasted up the elevator, down the hall of black doors, and was loud enough to draw forth a young woman as John fumbled with his keys. The smell of jasmine and ylang-ylang hit Arthur almost as hard as her stare did; the kind that could level a man if he weren’t careful and made him want to buy her a drink. The woman stood there wearing little more than a jade silk robe; half of her dark hair was coiled up in pin curls while the rest were newly freed. She had only managed to get mascara on one set of her lashes too. Not that she seemed too fussed about it. There wasn’t an ounce of hostility until her gaze drifted over to John. The woman scowled and promptly swung the door shut in their faces.

“You sure you live here?”

“Yes,” John grumbled, digging for his keys once more.

The door opened again. “John Marston! Where have you been?” John tried to slip in, but she pulled the door and blocked him. “Would it have killed you to spare a thought on someone other than yourself for half a second and give me a call?”

He pushed the door open. “I _was_ thinking ‘bout you! I didn’t want to wake up you or Jack!”

Abigail demonstrated just how unmoved she was by his excuse by putting her hands on her hips and stepping in front of him. “I would’ve preferred to have been woken up by the phone instead of laying awake for hours thinkin’ you were dead in a ditch somewhere!”

“I would’ve turned up at the morgue eventually.”

“If that happens one day, I swear I’m gonna make sure your tombstone says—” Abigail moved back to let them in as she swept her hand through the air. “‘Here lies John Marston. Died as he lived. Like an idiot.’”

“Can’t think of a more fitting epitaph,” Arthur grinned.

“Oh God,” John groaned as Abigail lit up, entering his apartment with none of the urgency from before. “Something tells me introducing you two was a mistake.”

Abigail paid him no heed, extending her hand. “You must be Detective Morgan.” They shared a firm shake. “It’s great to finally meet you. I suppose I have you to thank for John being alive?”

“Not sure whether a thanks is really in order but I am glad to meet you, Miss Roberts.” Arthur swept off his hat as he entered their home. “I didn’t realize Mr. Marston had been so open about the case. Seems leaving out certain details is something he’s rather good at.”

“That and acting a fool.” Abigail took his coat and hat while an increasingly red-faced John glowered at them. “Don’t worry. Unlike John, I can keep my lips sealed. I want Heidi’s murder solved just as badly as you do.”

A slow grin crept across his face. “Maybe I should be working with you instead of him.”

A consummate hostess, Abigail led him through until she caught sight of John again and took in his appearance more closely. After excusing herself to interrogate him, Arthur strolled about at his leisure. Sturdy woods, warm colors, and fresh flowers, their apartment was a refuge away from the ills of the world beyond their doors. All along the walls, on the bookshelves, and atop their grand piano were happy memories. Abigail cradling her newborn son. Uncle and Jack napping underneath a tree—solving the short-lived mystery of who was snoring behind a closed door near the kitchen. Jack taking what looked like his first steps. Mother and son opening gifts. The photographer with the loving eye only appeared on the other side of the camera once. Above the false fireplace John stood before Beecher’s Hope, a bit thin but handsome as ever, while a heavily pregnant and radiant Abigail cut the ribbon before the entrance.

“Hello,” a tiny voice said from behind the loveseat. Arthur leaned over trying to get a better look at Jack, but the little boy ducked down.

“Who said that?” Jack giggled but didn’t come out. Arthur lowered himself to the floor so he would be at the boy’s eye level once he did. “Hm. Must be a ghost.”

“Boo!” The little boy jumped out. Arthur grabbed his chest in an overly dramatic fashion and set off another round of giggles.

Unbeknownst to the sweet little boy, his initially feigned horror became very real. A bit like a sucker punch the mop of dark hair and chubby cheeks sprinkled with freckles knocked the air out of him. Jack was so much like the child who hid behind Grandpa Hosea when he stepped off the train at Valentine Station. Home from the war at long last, Isaac was baffled by the soldier rendered speechless at the sight of him. Not that he blamed his son, the only parent he knew was dear Eliza. She was there too, hands twisted in the fabric of her dress. Conscription had stolen him away just before she gave birth. Up until that moment at the train station, all he had of his boy were photographs. That was all he had left now.

Guess there was a ghost in the room after all.

“I scared you!”

“You sure did, kid.” Jack’s grin as mischievous as his father’s. “What’s your name? I’m Arthur.”

He proceeded to introduce himself before showing Arthur some of his favorite toys that were scattered all over the rug. Arthur listened and asked Jack questions, ignoring how strangled his voice sounded. Arthur tried not to think about Eliza and Isaac most days. But then John came along and made a mess of things, stirring up feelings Arthur thought he had long starved off. Even if he never met the infuriating young man, it wouldn’t have changed much. No matter how much work he drowned himself in, how much he stripped his home and life of everything that reminded him of his late wife and son, it was no use. You can bury people, but you can’t bury memories.

Abigail came into the room, brows pinched as she folded John’s wrinkled clothes and set it aside. “John barricaded himself in the shower before I could get a straight answer out of him.” Her expression immediately softened into one of amusement at the sight of Arthur sitting on the floor helping her son stack wooden blocks. “I see you’ve made a new friend, Jack.”

The boy was too fixated on making sure his tower was structurally sound to give much of a response.

Once Arthur declined Abigail’s offer for a drink, she draped herself on the loveseat, leaning over to smooth back Jack’s hair and rummage through the thin silver case on the glass coffee table. The silk barely covered her calves and with a cigarette now resting carelessly between her fingers, Abigail looked every part the Hollywood starlet. Except she wasn’t that good of an actress. Try as she might to maintain her cool expression, the undercurrent of concern that had drenched her wisecracks and jabs was bubbling up, ready to spill over the edge.

“John’s not hurt or anything, is he?”

“He’s fine.” Arthur said soothingly, handing Jack a wooden block. “Except for his ego.”

“Well, that I can live with.”

“Had to fish him outta the lake.” Abigail arched a thin eyebrow at this. “Not much of a storyteller myself so I’ll leave that to Marston. He’s not lying though. I took him home ‘cause he didn’t want to wake you two.”

“That’s his problem. His heart’s in the right place but he just doesn’t think.” She was about to light her cigarette when her hand snapped up to her hair. Her eyes went wide briefly and she set the cigarette aside to resume unraveling her pin curls. It was so endearing Arthur redirected his gaze to Jack, lest he be caught in the act of staring twice in one day.

“I want to thank you though. What you’re doing for Heidi? It means a lot to John and me. What happened to her, well, it never sat right with us. Seems like she got caught up in something a whole lot bigger than we could’ve ever imagined.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Still got miles to go with how things are shaping up. Leave the worrying to me though. You just focus on your boy.”

“Well, I can’t promise I won’t worry, but I’ll certainly worry less knowing you’re taking care of John.”

Color him confused. Maybe slap on the shade of frustration for good measure. Were they together or not? This was a home, through and through. One they had built together as a family. Yet her finger lacked a ring and John’s brazen conduct suggested he wasn’t planning to change that anytime soon. With too many questions but none of them his place to ask, Arthur scolded himself for his curiosity. The nature of their relationship shouldn’t matter to him.

Instead of responding, Arthur took the safe route. “How high do you want the tower to be?”

“Real big! Big like you.”

“Like me? You’re gonna need a lot more blocks, kid.”

Arthur scooted towards the overflowing toy box, shoving the items around in search of more for the boy. Abigail eyed him thoughtfully. Small talk would be the polite thing to do, but Arthur never had much use for manners.

“Is it alright if I ask you some questions, Miss Roberts?” She nodded. “You were good friends with Miss McCourt, I take it?”

“About the same as John. I met her back in ‘28 when we first moved to the city.”

The photograph of them at Beecher’s Hope caught his attention once more. Arthur did the math. New city. New business. New baby. Hell of a year.

“John has been right a whopping total of once in his lifetime.” She nodded towards the large picture. “I wasn’t keen on the speakeasy part but John said that’s where the real money is.”

The end of her sentence came out almost shyly, like she wasn’t used to her wealth yet and felt vulgar for discussing such a thing. Abigail quickly redirected the conversation. “I didn’t spend much time with Heidi on the Serendipity, but we spoke briefly when she came in with Mr. Bell and then later on when she wasn’t feeling well.”

He nodded. None of this was any different than her account in the papers.

Abigail seemed to pick up on this. “I wish I could help you more. Suppose I’m a boring witness, aren’t I?”

“You’re not boring. Not in the slightest.” She bit her lip at that. “What do you know about Mr. Bell or Mr. Van der Linde?”

“Not much except they belong behind bars even if they weren’t the ones who done it.” Abigail ran her hands through her short hair, loosening up the tight curls. “New Year’s Eve was the only time I saw those two in person.”

Wait. Dutch was on the ferry the night Heidi was murdered? That was new. Before Arthur could pry further, Jack smacked the blocks and laughed as they toppled over. He beamed up at him, proud of the mess he had made. Yup. Definitely John’s kid.

“Let’s stack ‘em again.” Arthur immediately hunkered down with Jack, who was thrilled to rebuild his tower. They didn’t glance up until John entered the room; semi-respectable and fresh-faced once more. His face erupted into a toothy grin as he took in the two on the floor.

“Mr. Morgan is a natural with children,” Abigail rose from the loveseat and smoothed out her robe. “You could learn from him.”

John shot Abigail a look that was about as frosty as a summer’s day before she left the room.

“Pa!” The two-year-old bounded forward and clamped onto his father’s leg. John ruffled Jack’s hair as he pointed at a well-loved copy of _The Tortoise and the Hare_ peeking out from under the couch. “Read to me?”

“That one again?” Arthur passed it up to John. “Funny how kids get stuck on things, huh?”

Engrained into his skull, John didn’t follow the words as he read, preferring to keep his eyes on the boy in his lap and holding onto him like he was scared Jack might fall off. Maybe he shouldn’t have declined the offer for a drink. The simple act of a father reading to his child was smothering Arthur with more emotions than he was equipped to handle. Sorrow from the familiarity. Anger that he couldn’t get a grip on himself. Envy that John had exactly what he had lost: a beautiful, headstrong woman full of undeserved patience and a darling, inquisitive son brimming with wonder and delight. Arthur hoped John would always keep them safe. Heaven knows he was going to try to.

“Why didn’t they wake him?” Jack asked, pointing at the sleeping hare.

“Uh. I don’t know.”

“Maybe none of the other animals liked the rabbit,” Arthur tossed in. Jack’s face scrunched up as he considered this. John shot him a tiny smile before continuing.

The longer he stared, the more his heart fluttered, skipping beats like a broken phonograph needle bouncing along a record. This John was so different from the one he was used to and it had Arthur feeling something he couldn’t put a name to.

“You okay there?”

Two pairs of brown eyes stared curiously at him. One dark, one light. That’s interesting. Maybe they would darken as Jack aged.

“Sure,” Arthur replied, hoping it sounded convincing. John’s grimace told him otherwise. “You got any other secrets I should know about?”

John didn’t miss a beat. “If I told you, that’d spoil the fun in finding ‘em out.”

Heels tapping along the wooden floor had the two Marstons out of their seats. Abigail came into the room all done up. “In case I’m not back in time, remember to put Jack down for his nap at two.” She put on her white gloves. “And make sure he cleans up this mess before I get home.”

“Yes, mam,” John said, giving her a two finger salute that Abigail rolled her eyes at fondly.

While Jack gave his mother a hug goodbye, Arthur pulled back his sleeve. Almost noon. Ready to leave as well, he followed the family into the foyer.

Abigail adjusted her little black hat; the brim covered one eye. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan.” She held out her hand. “Come over anytime you like.”

“Thank you, Miss Roberts.” Arthur shook her hand again. “Before you go, I was just wonderin’ how you knew who I was when we first met?”

“Oh, you matched John’s description. Tall, blond, and devastatingly handsome.”

A wolfish grin not unlike John’s greeted him before she closed the door behind her, leaving Arthur standing there kind of hoping all six floors would open up beneath him and swallow him whole.

John’s snickering cut off when he noticed Arthur had slung his coat over his arm. “Aw, c’mon. Don’t go. Abigail didn’t mean no harm.”

“I’m heading up to Owanjila to investigate one of the coordinates we found.”

“You are?” John blocked the door. “I feel like I should come. Jack loves car rides. We can—”

“Absolutely not,” Arthur snapped. “We don’t know what’s up there and frankly I like the idea of you being involved in this case even less now that I’ve seen all you have to lose.”

“Why must you paint everything so black?” John crossed his arms when Arthur placed on his hat and stayed quiet. Don’t engage, he told himself. It was a ploy to keep him from leaving and he was in no mood for any games. “God, you’re such a stubborn old bastard. I hope a grizzly bear gets you.”

“You’d miss me and my ugly mug if I was gone,” Arthur added before John tossed the door shut in his face.


	9. That Old Exhilaration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert and Sean tease poor Arthur on the drive to Owanjila. The fun and games come to a swift end however when they discover what's really going on up there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
1\. Graphic violence and lots of foul language in this chapter.  
2\. At one point, Arthur reflects on his bisexuality and how his view of it has changed overtime. Although it's brief, he does describe a graphic memory and some off-color humor follows. If you want to skip over that part, all you need to know is (if it wasn't made it clear already), his sexuality is a non-issue for him in this story. Arthur's problem lies with love/desire in general because of past experiences where those who loved him either died or left him in the end.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your kudos, lovely comments, and for taking the time to read this story. If you have any questions or concerns, let me know. <3

The sun was shining brighter than it had any right to. It warned the grasses not yet parched of the scorching summer ahead as if the memory of its heat wasn’t burned into every speck of soil throughout the prairies. Still irrepressibly green and flat, stretching onwards until it bled into the Montana where jagged cliffs and trees bloomed alike. One hand on the wheel, Arthur smoothly rounded a sharp curve. Speed limit acknowledged but ignored, chasing after a bit of old exhilaration in vain; the memory of racing Dutch and Hosea on horseback across the countryside. Before the dirt trails became solid roads. Back when they’d take a bullet for the other rather than be on the firing end. With the world and wind whipping by through the windows, you’d think there would be a smile on his face.

“Jesus! Who pissed in your cereal, Englishman? You oughta be happy your boy Sean’s here to watch out for ya. Who knows what’s creeping around that lake?”

Arthur used the rear-view mirror to direct his sour expression to the smug Irishman stretched out in the back. “We’ll never find out seeing as your big mouth is bound to scare everything away.”

Bored stiff on his day off, Sean badgered Albert into letting him join their excursion up north. Lying in wait like a damned cougar, Sean pounced and sank his claws in through pleading eyes and promises to follow orders. Arthur was even worse at saying no to his friends than Albert, so that was that. Now all three were now bound for Owanjila. At least Sean’s presence saved him a trip to the police station. He readily agreed to bring the gun found in Hosea’s office in for a ballistics analysis. Under-the-table, of course. Truthfully, Arthur wasn’t _that_ put out by him tagging along but Sean didn’t need to know that.

“Haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘two’s company, three’s a crowd?’” Arthur asked, trying not to smirk.

“Some lonely shite must’ve come up with that. More like three’s a party, am I right?” Sean chuckled at his own joke. “What’s four then?”

“A reason to stay home.”

Sean snorted. “I love ya, Arthur, but you’re a miserable sod. I’m waiting for the day you finally go full hermit and fuck off into the wilderness.”

“That’s my retirement plan.”

“At least he can shoot straight and without hesitation,” Albert pointed out, lifting his celluloid rounded sunglasses that made him look like an owl to give Arthur a familiar, pleading look. Be nice, you old grouch. “Heaven knows I won’t be much help if something nefarious is going on in those woods.”

“Exactly!” Sean slapped Arthur’s arm. “Mason’s not gonna be much help while he’s off communing with nature.”

“I would’ve used ‘observing’ over ‘communing,’ but your point still stands.”

“You know my da used—”

“Oh God,” Arthur and Albert groaned.

“Pull over,” Albert said, “I can’t bare another one of these stories.”

“And leave me stuck in here with him? I say we toss Sean out and find a cliff to drive off.”

“Sounds good. Eternal damnation can’t be _that_ bad.”

“You old bastards think you’re so fucking funny,” Sean grumbled while the two up front snickered. “Maybe that passed for humor back in your day, but it’s 1931 boys! Ya need to get with the times.”

“Actually, gallows humor is quite popular given how miserable the country has become since the stock market crashed.”

“Oh, shove off,” Sean said fondly, stretching out once more as the car slowed for a red light ahead. “Now as I was saying, my da used to…”

Rather than listen to yet another story about Sean’s father, Arthur’s thoughts drifted back to the hot-headed one he had encountered earlier in the day. What mischief were John and Jack getting up to while Abigail was out with her friends? Given he had been ready to grab Jack and hop into his car regardless of the potential for danger, it was hard to imagine John staying at home the whole time. All five of them in the car would have been a nightmare. Sean’s foul mouth teaching Jack words he didn’t need to know. John probably shooting him come-hither looks every time their eyes met in the mirror and himself getting stupidly flustered each time. It’d be a miracle if they arrived at the lake in one piece.

“Oi! King Arthur! Too high and mighty to listen to the tales of peasants or follow the rules of the road?”

“Huh?” The light was green. “Shit.” Arthur accidentally slammed on the gas pedal, jerking the three men back in their seats.

Before Sean could mouth off again Albert spoke first. “Leave Arthur be. He’s clearly daydreaming about his mysterious backer.”

“Wait, you met her?” He leaned forward and shook Albert’s arm excitedly. “Tell me everything. What she look like?”

“I swear you two are worse than a pair of gossipin’ old hens,” Arthur groused, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road ahead. What was supposed to be a straightforward drive was beginning to feel like they were about to careen into unfamiliar territory.

“Hm.” Albert stroked his beard. “Tall, dark, and scarred.”

Sean let out a quick burst of laughter. “Scarred? You fancy a jailbird or something?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. The object of our dear Arthur’s affections undoubtedly sparred with some ravenous beast and lived to tell the tale. If I was a betting man, I’d wager the _Canis lupus_.”

“The what? I don’t speak French.”

“That’s Latin, dumbass,” Arthur snapped before shooting Albert a murderous glare. “Why couldn’t you have kept your mouth shut? If Sean spots him now he’ll know—”

“It’s a man?” Sean practically shouted, slapping down hard on his thighs as his mouth fell ajar.

With no hat to hide behind, Arthur gripped the wheel harder and contemplated whether barrel rolling out of the car was too drastic a response. Damn him and his stupid mouth—nothing good ever came out of there. His self-loathing had less to do with what he said and more that he had said anything at all. Between Albert’s pitying look and Sean’s open bafflement, Arthur was certain he was going to be the first man to die from embarrassment. Death couldn’t come soon enough.

For as long as he could remember Arthur had been attracted to both women and men. Didn’t need more than his own two hands though to count those who had been privy to this. At first it was a secret born out of fear of others more so than the wrath of an angry God he struggled to believe in. Castrated men hanging from makeshift scaffolds worked as well as any crucifix upon a wall. Arthur had hoped if he ignored what his heart wanted that the desire would go away, but that worked about as well as it always did.

Then, as with today, carelessness led to exposure. So convinced Dutch and Hosea would discard him upon discovery, he almost didn’t believe his ears when they didn’t lash out. They spoke of safety, not sin, and in that moment Arthur didn’t think it was possible to love two people anymore than he loved them. Two decades later hatred and legality kept it a secret but any shame had long since worn off. To Arthur, it was just another part of him; a part tucked in alongside his memories and mistakes, his hopes and fears. His romantic affairs or lack thereof were no one’s goddamn business but his own.

Until he slipped up like an idiot, that is.

Slow as Sean may be on the uptake sometimes even a snail still moved forward. “My God. It’s not enough that dames are fallin’ all over themselves when you walk by but now you gotta woo all the fellers in town too? You’re insatiable, Morgan!”

“You sound like a man who wants to get kicked out and left alone in the wilderness.”

Unfazed by the idle threat and determined to ham it up, Sean placed a hand to his chest but his cheeky grin skewed his attempt at sorrow. “I thought we was friends! Can’t believe you told Mason and not me.”

“I didn’t.” Albert was presently refusing to look at him, wholly engrossed in cleaning his sunglasses with his shirt. “He figured it out without my help.”

“I ain’t blabbed yet ‘bout all your other crimes, have I? Actually, unless Scarface has got ya finally renouncing priesthood, an arrest can’t even take place.”

“Renouncing what?” Arthur scowled as Sean hooted with maddening laughter while Albert tried to hide his own by turning towards the window. The shaking of his shoulders gave him away. “Look, despite what Al says, he don’t mean nothing to me.” Oh hell, why was his face so red? “He’s just a client that drives me up the wall.”

Sean grabbed his shoulder and gave it a hearty squeeze. “Sure, Arthur.”

\--

A dam stood here once. According to Hosea, at least. You wouldn’t know it though with the way time had swept away all the clues of man’s interventions. Beyond the lake that teemed with wildlife, nature had reclaimed its own on the land too. All those bridges and paved roads were for folks from the east who once came in droves searching for the “Real America.” Back when money flowed out of pockets as fast and steady as the Montana. Now old trees with too many roots were tangled up and gutting out the foundation of their forgotten summer cabins. Many had collapsed upon themselves like the good times had or were otherwise cleaned out by roaming tramps. Arthur hoped civilization had learned its lesson and would stay the hell away. But he wouldn’t count on it.

“Here we go again,” Sean muttered as Albert, tripod in one hand, camera bag in the other, stretched his arms wide and took a deep breath.

“Just look at this place! No painter, no matter how skilled, could hope to recreate its true majesty upon a blank canvas.” Albert marched forward; stride full of purpose. Owanjila Lake glimmered in the afternoon sunlight, almost too bright to behold. “I as a mere photographer can only hope my pictures will have half of the vibrance that my subjects today will no doubt possess.”

“Mason, you’re the only bastard I know that can wax poetics about damp grass and deer shit.”

“Well, it’s pretty easy to do.” Albert pointed his camera at Sean, who flashed a toothy grin just in time for the click. “The poetry of the earth is never dead.”

“Whatchu gonna title that one, Keats? ‘Loudmouth in Repose?’” Arthur came over with his Stevens M620 shotgun in hand. Albert’s chuckle faltered and he shook his hands in protest. “Al, this ain’t up for discussion. It’s not just the four-legged predators I’m worried about, but two-legged as well.”

Albert accepted the shotgun reluctantly. “If it’ll give you peace of mind, I’ll keep it. Don’t expect me to use it though. I would hate to—oh!” He pointed towards a pair of beavers sitting on the shoreline rubbing their faces. Ever so carefully, he crept forward with his camera ready along the slick boulders towards the unsuspecting chubby rodents, nearly slipping twice.

As usual, Arthur went after him but Sean hooked an arm around his, pulling him back towards the road. “And you call us hens! C’mon, Mason’ll be fine. Let’s go find us some action.”

If there was action to be found, it certainly wasn’t around the lake. Whole place seemed on the verge of forty winks. Birds perched high above without song. No fishermen trying their luck. Towering pines barely swaying up at their peaks. There was a lumber truck parked just off the road and he was more surprised to find it empty than with the driver snoozing at the wheel. It was the sort of stillness a weary soul could bask in but Arthur wanted sound, movement; something strange he could sink his teeth into. He was like a hound who had lost his sense of smell and was left to guess which direction to pursue. How do you search when you don’t know what you’re looking for? Sean didn’t complain about the wild goose chase though. He kept quiet and alert, as promised, and the face of guilt began to rear its ugly head.

“Listen about earlier.” Arthur kept his voice low. “Appreciate you not being an ass ‘bout the whole—” He made some vague gestures with his hands. Might as well have been grasping at invisible straws. “Y’know.”

“Ah, think nothing of it. I don’t care where ya stick your pecker so long as it’s nowhere near any dame I’m after.”

Arthur dragged a hand down his face but for his own sanity chose not to respond as they left the lake for the trees. Their footsteps sent rabbits and squirrels darting out of the mess of shrubbery. He watched them go, eyes lingering on how their little tracks mingled with the many, many deer prints littering the forest floor. Sure was an awful lot going back and forth, back and forth.

“Alright there?” Sean asked, quirking a brow as Arthur traced their shape in the wet dirt.

“The gait’s wrong and the steps are too heavy.” Arthur beckoned Sean to follow with a flick of his head. “They’re fake,” he continued. “It’s an old bootlegger trick. Footprints will lead the cops straight to the hooch. Gotta disguise your trail somehow.”

“I bet the Prohibition boys would love to get their hands on someone like you. Y’know all the ins and outs huh?”

“I’d rather die than work for—” Arthur frowned and spat out, “a federal agency.”

“Don’t tell Milton that. Been prattlin’ on about how he’s after the top job at the Bureau of Investigation. Can you imagine? That arrogant shite is as crooked as an eleven dollar bill.”

A steady whirl close to that of an engine soon became their second guide. They picked up the pace, slinking through the trees, only slowing when a long and solid lean-to came into view. Arthur and Sean crouched down and hid behind a couple of high bushes. Five massive black pot stills sat in a row while ten armed individuals milled about, some operating the machinery while others loaded jars of fresh, clear alcohol into crates. Untreated wood and a roof covered in leaves helped the distillery blend into its surroundings. A pile of shoes with what looked like deer hooves on their bottoms were piled near a fire hydrant, undoubtedly installed by the bootleggers. This was no hick moonshine operation. This had Hosea written all over it.

“You boys done yet?” A woman snapped in a scratchy voice. ‘Out of the Woods’ was written across the back of her plaid blouse and Arthur had a feeling that truck he saw didn’t hold any lumber. “I’d like to make it to Riggs before dark.”

When a couple of the men waved her off, Arthur could practically hear her eye-roll before she resumed marching to and fro with a shotgun resting against her shoulder. He didn’t need to see under her yellow cloche hat to know she was Sadie Adler. The widow-turned-fearless-rum-runner who Arthur, Hosea, and Charles Smith had rescued while on-the-run after a meeting between the Big Three was broken up by police. After getting lost in a snowstorm, they came upon her lonely house, only to find a pack of O’Driscolls had gotten there and had put an end to the life she once knew. Clad in men’s clothing with a grimace that screamed “shoot first, ask questions later,” it seemed like she was trying to build a new, wholly different life for herself.

Arthur had a choice to make. He knew he should just back away and pretend he hadn’t seen anything here today. Don’t get involved. Don’t sink deeper into this mess. Don’t stick your neck out. But everyone down there was at risk. Who knows when Dutch would strike?

“Gentlemen!” Arthur called out, ignoring Sean’s startled gasp as he ventured down despite all the guns suddenly set on him. “And Mrs. Adler.”

“What are you doing here, Arthur?” Sadie asked, before spinning around towards the group. “Lower your goddamn weapons!”

One-by-one the guns went down, but confusion still rankled their faces. Must be new recruits. All the old timers had seen his mug plenty. Sean waited until Arthur was out of the line of fire before slinking on down with his tail between his legs. Charles set down a heavy crate, the glass bottles clinking slightly, and came forward with that neutral expression of his. Arthur had known him for almost a year and still wasn’t sure what to make of the reserved, thoughtful man whose quick-thinking and quiet leadership had made him indispensable to the Matthews Outfit in such a short amount of time.

“It’s good to see you,” Charles said. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Sean MacGuire. He works for the Blackwater Police but don’t worry ‘bout him. He’s trustworthy.”

Despite his words, several narrow stares came Sean’s way. He returned them in full.

“Listen,” Arthur said to the group, “I’m currently involved in a case where I found a list of six coordinates. I take it Hosea’s got another distillery near the Aurora Basin?” Charles gave a curt nod and Arthur sighed. “That means the remaining ones lead to operations run by Colm O’Driscoll and Angelo Bronte. The list was in Micah Bell’s hotel room.”

Charles and Sadie shared a displeased look while the others whispered among themselves fervently. Guess it was common knowledge Micah and Dutch were working together. Although Dutch’s next steps were unknown, it was clear he was planning to stir up a whole heap of trouble.

“After we finish up this batch, we’ll start dismantling the stills and set up elsewhere.” Charles informed the others. “I’ll get word to Mr. Matthews and those down in Tall Trees.”

A man about Arthur's age with thinning red hair and a muscular build stepped forward. “You sure that’s necessary? We can fight off whatever Van der Linde throws at us. We’ve done it before and can—” A gunshot pierced the side of his neck. Blood erupted from the gaping wound as he slumped to the ground, puddling around his slack face.

“Keep away from the stills!” Charles shouted as everyone scattered.

Flashes of gray flickered through the trees. Colt M1911 in hand, Arthur slid behind a thick tree trunk, firing off several shots. There was movement from all angles; a full ambush. Bright white sparks flared from the muzzles of the Tommy guns on both sides. Bullets fired in quick succession, masking the yells and curses. Arthur rushed forward. A bullet whizzed past his ear. He grabbed a corpse and held him up by his suit jacket like a shield, pushing forward and aiming to kill. His makeshift armor wouldn’t last. Not with the way the onslaught was tearing open the torso. A gunman peeked out too far from behind a large, jagged rock. Arthur shot him in the skull, dropped the riddled body, and slipped into his new cover.

For a moment he thought he heard Sadie yell out in triumph but he couldn’t see her. Arthur had lost sight of the others. The ringing in his ears blocked out much of the noise, allowing him to focus and down those before him. No sight of Bill Williamson yelling at everyone to push forward or Javier Escuella slipping threw the chaos with the same ease he might stroll down a street. Maybe they were already dead. Or maybe these weren’t Dutch’s boys at all. Sure as hell weren’t cops—too rough and undisciplined. Who, then?

While laying on his back reloading, Arthur spied Charles above, balancing on a sturdy branch. He handled his rifle with care, sniping only those who were aiming for the stills. Knowing him, the moonshine wasn’t his concern. All those fighting near were unthinkingly dancing among landmines and Arthur didn’t want to be around when the inevitable happened. Breaths punched in and out of him and nerves crackling with excitement, Arthur kept low as he took out a man who had spotted the skillful sniper above. Charles gave him a wave in thanks.

He hated this. He hated how easily killing came to him. It was like breathing, like walking. Thought was not part of the equation. Though the battlefield may be different, the feelings were the same. This was what he had been chasing earlier in jest. Among all the death, Arthur was alive and in his element. Thank heavens John wasn’t here, risking his life for someone so undeserving.

Wait.

Sean.

Where was he?

Arthur lifted up the stiff next to him whose brain was half spilled out onto the dirt, using him for cover as he dashed back into the fray. He refused to believe Sean was among the corpses, battered and oozing, life unfairly snatched away. He kept his eyes up, hunting for ginger beneath the low tipped hats. Arthur could handle this. The wretched screaming, the way bodies dance cruelly when bullets ricochet through them, the beating of his heart in his ears, the stench of the aftermath and knowing his hand in it. For he was depraved, reverting to his true self when the threat of death loomed above like a ready guillotine. These battles were impersonal. He knew little to nothing of his enemy and cared for them even less. What Arthur could not handle though was the thought of yet another person he cared for dying because of him.

“Let go, you pig fucker!” Sean yelled, voice loud and clear in a gap between the gunfire, trying to yank his pistol out of a larger man’s grip as they fought in front of a still.

“Sean! Get away from there!”

The Irishman dropped down, angled his pistol up and fired right into the man’s gut. Arthur grasped Sean’s arm, ripped him up towards him, and together they ran. A bullet finally made good on all their worries, piercing the already dinged-up vat, and sending a fireball up into the air with a deafening bang. Another still close by exploded too. Men engulfed in flames ran forward with the fire spreading along the ground and up their clothes. It brought Arthur right back to the war, back to those horrible flamethrowers, and having to watch soldiers on both sides burn alive.

“Arthur? Arthur!” Sean was shaking him, pointing at a man running off in the direction where Albert was.

No discussion necessary. They tore back through the thin trees and bushes as if they weren’t there, desperate to catch him before he got back out into the open. But he was wiry and swift and vanished down a slope. Arthur and Sean stood at the top briefly before going their separate ways. At the base, Arthur crept forward quietly, hoping to hear an outburst of panicked footsteps. The bastard surprised him, knocking the wind out of Arthur as they both crashed to the ground. Arthur grabbed his assailant’s hands as they swung down, trying to bury a dagger into his face; the blade barely an inch above his nose.

There was a loud smack of wood against bone and his attacker’s eyes shot open before he went limp. Arthur threw him off and stared up at a bewildered Albert, holding his shotgun like a bat.

“I didn’t kill him, did I?” Albert nudged the unconscious man with his shoe.

Arthur was breathing too heavily to respond. So was Sean when he ran over, but he pointed at the rise and fall of the man’s chest. Albert let out a great sigh of relief.

“What the hell-are you doing here?” Arthur panted, trying to fend off Albert who was trying to brush all the dirt off him as he sat up. “Get back to my car!”

Albert gave him a glare that told Arthur he had some choice words for his suggestion to abandon his friends but was too polite to utter them. Rather than argue, Arthur clapped him on the back in thanks, before he and Sean snapped their handcuffs around the man’s wrists and ankles respectively.

“Rise and shine,” Arthur growled, slapping the man’s face a bit.

“Go fuck yourself,” the man mumbled, though it was loud enough to distinguish an Irish accent. Arthur’s back straightened as it dawned upon him that he had an O’Driscoll in his hands. So much for that peace treaty. What was going on? If there was one person Dutch hated more than Hosea, it was Colm. They wouldn’t be working together, would they?

“Ah, he’s a Belfast boy. Just shoot him.” Sean spat at his feet. “Loyalist cunt.”

Arthur shook his head, not in the mood for politics. “I’d rather hear what he has to say.”

\--

“What a waste,” Charles murmured, watching the dead join those who had already gone up in flames. Fifteen had fallen, six of which were his men.

After the shootout ended and the initial fire had been put out, everyone—save for Albert who agreed to borrow Arthur’s car and bring an injured man to the hospital in Strawberry—pitched in to dismantle what remained of the distillery. They worked in near silence, for Sadie had knocked out the captured O’Driscoll the moment he started spitting insults. Arthur almost wished someone would strike up a conversation, if only to drown out his swirling thoughts. It was his fault the O’Driscolls had been able to sneak up on the distillery. Arthur had distracted them from keeping watch. Charles and Sadie dismissed his apologies however, telling him not to worry about it. Why did everyone always let him off the hook? He was also troubled by how at home he felt in life-or-death situations and the way certain memories still had the power thirteen years later to seize up his bones. Do soldiers ever really leave the battlefield?

“Wait ‘til Colm finds Hosea’s got a woman workin’ for him. He’ll laugh himself to death.”

“He won’t be laughing when I slit his throat from ear-to-ear,” Sadie said with full confidence. Drenched in blood and none of it her own, Arthur didn’t doubt her for a moment.

“You all made a big mistake,” the O’Driscoll sneered, flicking his sweat-slicked hair aside, undaunted by his present predicament. “Colm knows it was Hosea who attacked his men up in the Grizzlies.”

Charles and Sadie shared a confused look before the former spoke, “You must be mistaken.”

“Shut up you lying sack of—” Sadie shot him right between the eyes, then stared everyone down before grabbing a shovel and heading back to the pit where the charred corpses lay.

Arthur, Charles, and Sean held equally grave expressions. The Van der Linde Gang was too small to take on the Matthews Outfit directly, but the O’Driscolls weren’t. They were probably behind that attack in the Grizzlies and had framed Hosea. If he started up a war between two of the biggest mobsters, Dutch could waltz on in afterwards and reap the benefits. At least, that was likely the plan. Too bad Arthur had to go and gum up the works by accidentally uncovering it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fake lumber trucks to transport liquor and shoes with hooves (cow though, not deer) on them were tactics used by real prohibition-era bootleggers. [[Source](https://www.messynessychic.com/2016/06/07/all-the-sneaky-tricks-of-prohibition-bootleggers/)] Also, the "Prohibition boys" Sean refers to is the Bureau of Prohibition.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! John will be back in the next chapter. :)


	10. Straight to Oblivion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between a shake down from the cops, a run-in with the man who has been tailing him, and getting caught in the rain, John's having one hell of a day. At least Arthur is along for the ride.

When a man fumbles at something as simple as lighting a cigarette, he either needs to lay off the hooch or deal with whatever was making him sweat under his collar. Fingers fidgeting as he tucked the offending object back into the carton and Beecher’s Hope growing larger with every step, Arthur found himself almost wishing he was a booze hound. He had already called John to discuss Owanjila and the results of the ballistics analysis. Nothing warranted him being here but his feet felt otherwise. Arthur didn’t want to think too hard as to why.

Evening at the speakeasy was less rowdy than its late-night counterpart. From the stage, the band played moody jazz for the customers wading in; a mix of happy couples, not-so-happy regulars, and clusters of young ladies chatting over their cocktails. A kiss blown his way left Arthur looking around for the recipient until an outburst of giggles told him who it was for. Ready to barricade himself in the safety of a stiff drink, he almost walked right past a familiar face.

“Detective Morgan?” Kieran Duffy gawked up at him. “What brings you here?”

Clean-shaven and in a three-piece suit far beyond the price range of a stable manager—probably a gift from a certain gangster—Kieran could’ve passed for a new man if he weren’t as jittery as a rabbit among hounds. His foot was little more than a blur, shaking away while his eyes lingered on the mossy-green coat slung over the chair next to him.

“Bad business.” Arthur dropped his hat on the table as he sank down into the vacant seat. Look at them. A pair of suckers suffering from a case of nerves. “I’m here on account of a police raid. Been doing some work for ‘em on the side. They’ll be arresting everyone shortly.”

Kieran paled, surging forward to grab his arm. “You’re kidding!”

“Afraid not, O’Driscoll.” Arthur struggled to break free from Kieran’s vice-grip and resorted to prying off one finger at a time. “The place is surrounded. Everyone’ll be spending the night in the big house.”

“Can’t you get them to wait ‘til tomorrow? I’ve been tryin’ to work up the courage to ask Miss Gaskill on a date for months.”

The admission almost did him in. Don’t smile. Don’t smile. “How ‘bout this? I’ll put in a good word and see that you two get placed in the same cell.”

“Oh God.” Kieran slumped back in his chair. “I knew I should’ve taken her to the movies.”

“Arthur, are you teasing poor Kieran again?”

All dolled up and in a sleek maroon gown, Mary-Beth Gaskill was as lovely as ever. All smiles too despite catching him in the act. Used to seeing his friend and office-neighbor in simple dresses and big, comfy shawls that he teased she wore strategically to put curling up with a good book in the mind of customers, Arthur couldn’t maintain his serious expression.

“Maybe,” he admitted sheepishly, rubbing his neck.

“Oh, you’re a louse.” Mary-Beth said fondly, smacking him lightly on the shoulder with her little matching handbag. “Kieran, if there’s one thing you need to know about Arthur is that he acts all mean and tough, but deep down he’s a real sweetheart and hates when people discover the truth.”

“Now you—you listen here, Miss Gaskill.” Damn it. He must’ve flushed bright red given Kieran’s suddenly oversized grin. Well, it served him right. “Don’t you go ‘round telling people that.”

The music shifted into a livelier Cab Calloway tune, drawing forth couples young and old to the dance floor. Mary-Beth perked up and placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Arthur, we need to catch up. I’ll bring you along the next time I see the girls.”

He barely got out a goodbye before Mary-Beth led a quietly distressed Kieran into the crowd. She made short work of his two left feet syndrome, immediately launching into a mini lesson on how to do a simple foxtrot. Pretty soon Kieran stopped glancing at other couples and kept his eyes on her, where they belonged. The happy young couple reminded him a bit of when he courted Mary Gillis, now Mary Linton, long before the war. Things were different back then, what with chaperones and tighter rules. He wondered how she was, if she knew just how great a bullet she dodged by leaving him. Otherwise Mary would be six feet under and not poor Eliza.

Feeling old and liable to end up with a cavity if he kept watching them, his gaze sought the exit. He found John instead. He was behind the bar, dapper as ever, placing three martinis on the tray held out by a waiter. A warmth, like whiskey on a cold night, spread across his chest when their eyes met and his feet moved forward despite his inhibitions. He had many things on his mind but the case wasn’t one of them. So much for professionalism.

“Thought I scared you off,” John smirked. “Didn’t figure you’d set foot in here again. What brings you back?”

“What brings most people to bars?” Arthur set some money down on the counter. “Gimme a double.”

Rather than select a bottle from the rows upon rows of stacked shelves behind him, John pulled out something special from a cupboard near his feet. After pouring Arthur his drink, he slid it and the cash towards him. “On the house.”

“Spoiling me now?” Arthur’s eyebrow quirked as he took a sip. It was a single malt scotch, rich and smoky. “What’ll your other customers think?”

“Perks of knowing the owner.” He shrugged, before crossing his arms and resting his elbows on the counter. “For a man who wanted a drink so bad, I’m surprised you didn’t stop at one of the six speakeasies between here and your office.”

A single malt was meant to be savored but damn if Arthur wasn’t two seconds away from downing the rest of it in one go.

“You keep count?” Arthur defected, clearing his throat. Maybe he should’ve ordered a triple.

“I like to know my competition.”

“You don’t have any. Not as far as I’m concerned.”

If he was better with words, he might have said something sly, something that could trip up the smug bastard who enjoyed leaving him flustered far too much. It was the truth though and John was happy for it, sloshing a bit of the scotch in another glass for himself. He clinked their glasses together and drank.

“What happens…” John glanced both ways discreetly before beckoning Arthur closer with a curl of his finger. More come here than come-hither, but Arthur didn’t move, opting for a suspicious stare. It was bad enough the other bartender, a short feller with fast hands and wandering eyes, kept sneaking peeks at them.

“Christ’s sakes,” John grumbled, before leaning over the counter. His lips brushed against Arthur’s ear. “What happens now that we know the bullets are a match? You never told me.”

“You can’t be trusted,” Arthur replied, repressing a shiver. “That’s why.”

Truth be told, he didn’t have his next steps mapped out. He had to visit Dutch. That much was obvious. But how? He knew of the investigation into Heidi’s murder, but not Arthur’s knowledge of his bigger plan to start up a war between the Big Three. This social call had to be framed carefully so as not to alert Dutch that he knew more than he should. Worst of all, it would require acting which was about as fun as a root canal.

“We’re supposed to be partners. You can’t keep me in the dark.”

“We’re not partners. That’s not how this works.”

“I’m the one footing the bill so I decide how this works.”

“Not with me you don’t,” Arthur shot back.

Neither could be cowed by the other man’s anger but that didn’t stop them from their fool’s game of trying to stare the other down. It was the stark familiarity that gave Arthur the upper hand in the end. He had seen this before with Dutch and Hosea. John loved the fight almost as much as he loved getting his way. So he did what Hosea would do: deny him both.

“I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

Knowing exactly who he meant, John’s shoulders sank. Down went the scotch too though it must’ve burned something fierce with how hard he winced. The distillery shootout had solidified John’s baseless fear that Dutch was going to hurt Arthur. Knowing him, he’d try to weasel his way into the visit. Not a chance. Not this time.

This conversation was a dead-end and Arthur wanted to steer John away before he got any ideas otherwise. “Why you behind the bar? I thought the owner was just supposed to lord over the place and bask in self-satisfaction.”

“Took a night off from that to let one of my bartenders head home early. His wife is ill.” He bit his lip. “I’d do it more often if the view was always this nice.”

Arthur gave him a flat look. “You ain’t subtle, are you?”

John flashed him a guilty-as-charged smile that he couldn’t help but return. Always wanting and never the wanted, Arthur wasn’t used to being pursued. It was kind of nice, if he was being honest, though it baffled him greatly. What to do about it was the real issue.

“Were you this obnoxious with Abigail?”

“Weren’t like that. We were friends.” John broke off and growled, “What’d you do want, old man?”

The gatekeeper—Uncle, if Arthur was remembering correctly—came up to the bar with a face crinkled with a mixture of worry and irritation. “Boy, you are as sour as vinegar! I came over here out of the goodness of my heart!” John rolled his eyes but Uncle persisted, “I wanted to let you know the police are coming. Seems Ross and a lot of other fellers would like a word.”

“What?” John exclaimed, not masking his horror. “How long we got?”

“Oh, you ready to grace me with your attention now? How kind of you!” Uncle put a finger to his lips. “Hm. They called, oh, ten minutes ago? So not long, I suppose.”

“You useless sack of shit!” John stalked forward, causing Uncle to back up into Arthur. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Why John, you know I got lumbago! You can’t expect me to move as fast as a youngin’ like you! You oughta be grateful I even let you know you miserable—” John seized his shirt, pinning him to the counter. Uncle’s arms flailed. “Morgan! It’s Mr. Morgan, right? You’re a good man, ain’t you? You wouldn’t this hapless idiot harm an old feller like me, would ya?”

“That’s just it.” Arthur swirled his scotch around. “I ain’t a good man.”

Uncle grabbed Arthur’s sleeve. “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second! Surely you must have a_ little_ pity for an old, sick man such as myself? You must have a heart somewhere in there!”

Arthur gave a deep sigh. “Marston, there are too many witnesses to kill him.”

Suddenly hesitant under the gaze of spectators, John let go but raised a finger to his face. “Help me get this place in order. ‘Cause if I go down, you lose your meal ticket.”

That lit a fire under the old man. Chronic back pain momentarily cured, he hurried over to the stage to speak with members of the band while John rounded up the bartenders and wait staff. They spread out to make the wet speakeasy look bone-dry. Obvious drunks and glasses with alcohol were taken away. (Arthur managed to throw back his scotch before it was plucked out of his hands). Big spenders were cleaned out of the gambling lounge; a curtain and couch were used to conceal that particular door. He laughed openly when John and Uncle spun the shelves stocked with liquor around, the backs of which were decorated with pastoral artwork. Common sense told him to leave, but he ignored it. Save his own neck while John, Mary-Beth, Kieran, and hell even Uncle, got hounded by the cops? Nope. Not happening.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening, folks,” Uncle said into the microphone on the stage, bringing the curious whispers to a hush. “We got some unwanted visitors from the clubhouse on the way. But don’t y’all worry, we’re tidyin’ up the place and things will go back to normal soon,” he paused, then added quickly, “Pretend you don’t know they’re coming!”

Just as the music resumed, loud banging on the walls brought everything to a more permanent halt. When eight axes began to hack open the north and south walls, the place erupted into commotion. Police officers chopped and kicked at the destroyed wood, rushing in like water through a broken dam. Beecher’s Hope was flooded with men in short dark blue coats, thick black waist belts, and caps bearing golden laurel insignia. Arthur leaned back against the counter and watched as people ran every which way. Revolvers holstered, but batons out, the cops easily encircled and forced the crowd back. Thwarted escapes were accompanied by furious yells and terrified shrieks. Guess Uncle got his wish.

“I thought you were joking!” Kieran shouted. Holding onto Mary-Beth, he was trying his damnedest to reach the bar.

“I was!” he replied, pushing people aside to grab the young couple. He shuffled them behind the counter so they wouldn’t get jostled around anymore.

The stampede carried on until a loud whistle halted the chaos; heads turned one-by-one towards a senior officer dressed in civilian clothing who had just entered. Edgar Ross held up his golden police badge high for everyone to see. It glimmered in the chandelier light.

“Everyone settle down, settle down. I’m Inspector Edgar Ross of the Blackwater Police Department. This is a police raid and we’d appreciate your cooperation—”

“What the hell is going on?” John stormed over with all the self-righteous indignation that Arthur would expect from a man who was actually innocent.

“Quite the café you got here, Mr. Marston,” Ross said dryly, his thick, greying brows and mustache quirked slightly as he eyed the scantily-clad dancers and band members who were scowling at him from the stage. “Never seen so much fuss kicked up over coffee and pastries.”

John got right in his face. Forget being arrested for peddling booze, harassment was going to put him behind bars. “I like to entertain my customers. Is that illegal now too?”

“No, but the sale of intoxicating beverages is.”

“Enjoying the show, Mr. Morgan?” A familiar voice drawled. Felt hat in his hands, Andrew Milton strolled over far too casual for Arthur’s liking. When a heel has a spring in his step, something’s up. Definitely here for more than just a raid. He was dressed like his colleague, right down to the black tie and freshly shined shoes. “Somehow finding a degenerate such as yourself here isn’t remotely surprising.”

Two took bribes and valued their public image and careers more than justice. The remaining one took the law into his own hands and turned a blind eye towards bootleggers. Yet there was no love lost between the three corrupt lawmen. Arthur sparred with Ross and occasionally Milton in the courtroom. When hired to find proof of innocence to save murder suspects from frying, he was usually successful. Both could never take a not guilty verdict in stride. Arthur’s known connection to Hosea only worsened their dismal opinion of him, though that was something he took pride in.

“Evenin’ Detective,” Arthur grunted, not pleased he had missed John’s sarcastic response to Ross. “Yeah, secret’s out. I too like to go out on Friday nights.”

“That’s Deputy Chief of Police to you, Mr. Morgan. But I know how loose you are with that term considering you still apply it to yourself.”

“Maybe I just like to annoy you, _Detective_.” Arthur picked a pick of lint off his gray suit. “Funny seeing two senior officers here. Paperwork not keeping you fellers busy?”

“Come now, you know we prefer a more hands-on approach.” The riddled skin of his scarred face seemed tight around the smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Besides, I’ve always enjoyed going on raids and Inspector Ross was kind enough to oblige.”

Milton shifted back in repulsion as Arthur got closer, lip curling. “Why don’t you quit wastin’ my time and tell me what you want?”

He beckoned his colleague over with a flick of his head. “It might interest you to know that Mr. Morgan’s breath reeks of scotch.”

“Probably not the only one,” Ross replied in a bored tone, eyeing the crowd.

John pushed Ross aside to get to Arthur, only for three officers to seize him. His arms were wrenched back to snap cuffs on. Everyone, excluding Uncle who had mysteriously vanished, burst into protest.

“You can’t bring me in!” John squirmed violently as they got rough with him. “The Volstead Act didn’t outlaw drinking and you can’t prove the alcohol was sold here!”

“I know perfectly well what the law says, Mr. Marston,” Ross smirked, clearly enjoying watching John thrash as they dragged him towards the hole in the wall. “We also know exactly who you are and what you do. You’re nothing more than a common criminal.”

“You have no proof of any wrongdoing,” Arthur called out, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. “I drank before I got here!”

Others joined in with his useless lie but the cops didn’t care about proof. Otherwise they would have torn the place apart searching for hidden liquor. This was about shaking John up. Many police whistles were blown in vain; the uproar couldn’t be silenced. Arthur tried to worm his way through, but his large frame made it difficult. He kept trying. He had to get to John. The fool wasn’t helping himself by cursing out every cop who came into his line of vision and trying to kick at them. They would beat John to a pulp if they got him alone.

Milton tapped his shoulder. “If you want to save your friend, I suggest you come with me.”

Oh, this should be good.

Cops moved people aside to let him and the senior officer through the speakeasy and out the jagged opening. The harsh outline of police cars and nosy onlookers shadowed by the evening hour clashed with the gentle pinks and deepening purples of the sunset. Clouds loomed in the distance. John was trapped in a circle of jeering cops; glare darting like a caged animal. Arthur could do nothing as they shoved him around. A sucker punch to the gut sent John to his knees.

“We’ll make you a deal,” Ross said to John as he gasped for air. “You give us Matthews and we’ll leave you alone. We know he’s the one keeping this two-bit gin joint wet and every other just like it in West Elizabeth.”

“This offer is extended to you as well, Mr. Morgan,” Milton added.

“You coward,” Arthur growled, about to barge forward when six guns were aimed at him. “Too yellow to go after Matthews yourselves so you gotta force others to do your dirty work?”

“You’ve been taking his bribes for years, what changed?” John laughed breathlessly, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he tilted his head up towards Ross. Hair tousled and teeth bared, he looked positively feral, like he might snap at their throats if he broke free. “Put me in jail and I’ll expose every one of you. Good luck gettin’ that Bureau job, Milton.”

Both senior officers soured. He kept a straight face but wished John hadn’t said that. Milton was now appraising Arthur like an art collector might a forgery. “How’d you know about that?”

“Who doesn’t know at this point?” John sneered. “You haven’t shut up about it.”

Milton and Ross glanced around, wondering which of their fellow officers had let that secret slip. Thankfully, a certain Irish patrolman wasn’t here.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Mr. Marston,” Milton warned as Ross gave an unspoken order to release him. Arthur was instantly by John’s side. “You’d be wise to work with us, not against.”

“You’re both morons,” he spat, rubbing his wrists as he stood up. “I don’t even know Mr. Matthews.”

Seething with rage, John was almost vibrating and likely drawing upon what little willpower he had not to swing a fist at the cops still mocking at him. Arthur’s presence, fists clenched and face hardened with fury, kept them back. Meanwhile several went inside to alert their colleagues of the sudden turn of events and try to save face, using lack of evidence as their excuse.

“You know, I’d like to say that playing dumb doesn’t suit you.” Ross pulled out a cigar, offering it to Milton who politely declined, before placing it between his lips. “But I can tell with you, Mr. Marston, it’s not an act. Have a good evening.”

Arthur hooked an arm around John to stop him from tearing after Ross.

\--

It didn’t take long for things to get back to normal. Well, as normal as they could be with surprise windows now decorating your business. Furniture was piled in front of them for now while ruffled feathers were smoothed over with free drinks. Uncle, who had been laying low with the drunks in John’s office, claimed to know someone who could fix the damage for a good price. Once everything was settled and tired of watching John bite people’s heads off, Arthur forced him to take a walk.

“What the hell is the point in paying for protection? Hosea owes me a goddamn refund,” John grumbled, pacing back and forth while Arthur sat on the gazebo ledge. “What do they expect us to do? Grab Hosea, stick a bow on him, and hand him over?”

“Quit your whining and be glad it wasn’t a proper raid.”

Heavy clouds had rolled in, the air thick and ready to make good on the promise of unwanted rain. They stole the dwindling light the sky had to offer and chased away most others. Park goers headed for shelter; children who had been flying kites now dragging them along the ground. Arthur and John silently watched the streetlights lining the perimeter flickered on one after the other.

“Marston, you’re gonna wear a damn hole in the floor.” John carried on though, of course. “Maybe they want more money out of Hosea. Maybe someone else bribed them to harass you.”

“If you weren’t busy with Heidi’s case, I’d hire you to find out who’s behind this. What if they come back? What if—the hell you smiling at?”

“You,” Arthur said simply. “You crazy bastard. Fighting off cops, giving lip to two mugs who can ruin your life, looking ready to kill the lot of ‘em with your bare hands…”

“Huh.” John sat down next to him. “You sound kinda impressed.”

“Well, the extent of your stupidity is impressive.”

“Shut up.”

He suddenly realized how close they were and his response died in his throat. Not that John noticed. Too busy staring wide-eyed at something behind Arthur. “It’s him.”

“Who?”

“The bastard that’s been followin’ me. He’s over by the park sign.”

The park was wide and open with more flowers than trees and trails zig-zagging in every direction. Can’t sneak up on a man here. Can’t escape the full view he had of them from the sign. Can’t lead John away in the hopes of being followed neither. Arthur didn’t want to risk the person escaping through Blackwater’s back alleyways. There was only one thing to do.

“Don’t!” John yelled as Arthur spun around and jumped over the ledge of the gazebo.

Not expecting Arthur to charge like a bull, the unknown man stood stunned for a moment before taking off as well. He could hear John calling him, language becoming increasingly colorful. Tough luck, Arthur was going to catch the slippery shadow and make sure he regretted ever going near John. He tore across the lush grass; thankful the rain hadn’t yet started. A few stragglers in the park watched but were smart enough to keep well back. The fleeing man was swift, but his legs were longer and more powerful.

To his surprise, John managed to catch up. He barked out, “And you call me crazy?”

Running alongside each other, they were making ground, but it wasn’t enough. The man was closing in on the park gate. A shared glance made Arthur and John diverge. He went right, then hoisted himself up and over the iron fence onto the sidewalk that wrapped around the park. Some pedestrians jumped aside, others he dodged as Arthur hurried to the gate. The man ran out. He swerved to avoid John. Arthur grabbed hold and threw him up against the fence.

“Gotcha you son of a—” He let the man drop. “Javier?”

Somehow despite running for his life, Javier Escuella was mostly unfazed, only having to adjust his red tie. His indigo trench coat, sleek like John’s, wasn’t even wrinkled. Even his black hair was still perfectly slicked back save for a couple of strands that hung over one eye. Meanwhile Arthur and John were winded; his legs and lungs burned.

Javier gave him a genuine grin which made the pencil mustache he was now sporting curl. “Morgan! Long time, no see, huh?”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. Goddamn it, Dutch. He risked a peek at John. Good thing he did. Rage front and center once more, Arthur had to block him before he could tackle Javier. “Settle down, Marston!”

“Settle down? _Settle down?_” John went under Arthur’s arm and pointed a finger in Javier’s face. “This asshole has been following me for two weeks!”

Javier tried to bite John’s finger but he snatched it back in time. He snickered in delight, beckoning John to come at him with both hands. Guess Javier hadn’t lost his sense of humor nor his love of riling up fools.

“It’s my fault,” Arthur grumbled to John. “This is Mr. Javier Escuella. He works for Dutch. Both him and Hosea have no regard for my privacy.”

“Yeah, sorry about all this.” Javier shrugged, arms wide, sounding anything but apologetic. He rested his back against the iron bars, pulling out a pack of self-rolled cigarettes. He offered it first to both of them but when neither accepted, Javier shrugged again and slipped it back into his coat. Probably to infuriate John further, he took his sweet time lighting up. Javier struck a match against his shoe—seemed he had taken to wearing spats—and blew out a lazy wisp before continuing his explanation. “Just doing my job, _amigo_.”

“Your job? I oughta have you arrested, you piece of shit!”

“You could do that.” Javier nodded. “Same as I could let the pigs know all about you. Saw you had a bit of fun with them earlier. Maybe they’re still close by. What’s say you and I go track them down together? Wanna join us, Morgan?”

Arthur shot the two hot-headed men warning looks, ready to grab them both if they couldn’t behave.

“It’s nothing personal.” Javier pulled the cigarette from his lips, eyes not leaving John’s. “Dutch just wanted to keep an eye on his favorite son and the people he’s involved with.”

At least he had an excuse now to visit Dutch: to tell him to stay out of his private life.

Not remotely intimidated, John leaned in close. “Yeah, well, you tell Dutch to go fuck himself. I’ll kick his ass the next time I see him.” When Javier blew smoke in his face, John slapped the cigarette right out of his mouth. Arthur yanked John back by his arm before he could strike again. “I’ll kick your ass too!”

“_Jesus Christ_, Marston. Pipe down!”

“Ay, so tough and feisty!” Javier crushed the still smoking cigarette beneath his shoe. “I love it.”

Only when Arthur had snaked an arm around his slim waist and escape became futile, did John settle. “Listen Javier, you tell Dutch to mind his own business. I don’t appreciate him harassin’ folks I know.”

“Tell him yourself. I’m no messenger boy.” Javier smiled again. “Am I free to go, Officer Morgan? Or you gonna write me up?”

“Get outta here.” Arthur grumbled.

He tipped his hat in goodbye. Before Javier left, he gave John a wink. “See you around, _cabrón_.”

“Asshole!” John started wriggling again. Arthur let go and received a hard shove for it. “You’re an asshole too! Why’d you stop me? Javier Esc—whatever the hell his name is, deserves my fist in his face.”

Arthur pushed him right back. “Didn’t realize you were dyin’ to get knifed. You don’t know Javier like I do. He’d gut your dumb ass before you landed a single punch. Would’ve served you right too.”

“And you just let him go? What if he goes after Abigail and Jack?”

“Javier’s not like that. He’s a good man. Just blindly loyal to the wrong person and kinda unpredictable.” Wait, that was a terrible response. “He’d never hurt your family though.”

At the end of his rope, John ran a hand through his messy hair. Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder but John brushed it off and walked away. He sighed, wishing he wasn’t so inept at comforting people. He never knew what to say or do when others were upset.

To his surprise, John came back abruptly with a frown. “Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Risk yourself to protect me. I ain’t worth getting hurt over.”

A couple of raindrops landed on their coats. “When a client pays me as well as you do, I’m gonna make sure they stay alive.”

White-hot lightning streaked down from the darkened sky over the Great Plains, emitting a crash of thunder that shook the earth. There was a mutual groan, both equally excited about the prospect of getting soaked.

“I know a shortcut back to Beecher’s.” John motioned for Arthur to follow. “C’mon!”

Getting caught in a downpour had a way of taking him back, though Arthur went as willingly as a death row prisoner clawing at the walls. Back to when he was twelve, shivering in the shadow of towering newspaper buildings, fighting with other orphans for the warm spots around the grated vents that let out heat and steam from the underground press rooms. Back to when he stood between Dutch and Hosea, refusing to move despite their drawn guns. Back to when he stood in a flooded trench, ankle-deep in mud and water soiled by drowned rats and waste alike, terrified his boots might leak and he’d wind up with gangrene.

It was impossible to linger on those awful memories though, what with bags of forgotten trash to leap over in the alleyways and sharp corners to weave around with John by his side. They tried their best to stay dry, slipping underneath every awning and balcony, avoiding the large puddles and the waterfalls that fell from roofs. With the speakeasy just across the way, Arthur was about to dash across the road when John grabbed his hand and pulled him back into the alley. He stumbled, back colliding with the brick wall. Cars flashed by the narrow exit. The light must have changed.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Thin streams trickled down the brim of both their hats. Most of John was lost. Clothes as dark as the night around them. He couldn’t see much, but he could see John’s face; riddled with confusion until it eased into one of determination. Arthur’s heartbeat swelled when hands slowly slid up his chest.

“Marston,” he murmured, more of a question than a warning.

“Call me John,” he whispered, grasping onto the lapels of Arthur’s coat. He pulled him into a kiss.

It wasn’t what he had expected. For a man so brash and reckless, there was none of the relentlessness, none of the raw desire that underscored their interactions. John pressed his lips to his gently, telling Arthur he could pull away at any moment but hoped he wouldn’t. As if Arthur could move even if he wanted to. His hands hung by his sides; arms stiff with indecision. As tense as his muscles were, his heart was impossibly light. When they broke apart, Arthur didn’t want to let go of that feeling. He chased after it, wrapping his arms around John and bringing them back together.

No good would come from this, but it was hard to care as their parted lips glided over the other’s. He tasted of the rain and rye from before. It was cold and it was wet. His soaked trench coat weighed heavily on his shoulders. But John was warm. So warm. When he moaned into the kiss and pressed himself even closer to Arthur, he was glad for the wall and that their bodies were flush. He didn’t trust his legs. John deepened the kiss. Tongue prodding then dipping in; Arthur’s own came to meet his. He cursed himself for treading into troubled waters willingly, for wanting to inhale and sink straight to oblivion. The problem was he would take John down with him if he did. This thought alone made Arthur turn his head away. Skin slick with rain and chilled by the night air, he kept a firm hold on John though. Not willing to let him drift away. Their chests were hard against the other as they tried to catch their breath.

“John,” Arthur panted, trying and failing to sound stern. “We shouldn’t.”

“You’re probably right.” His gaze held its usual spark of defiance. Arthur wondered if his were the same for he felt that same fire, that same want within.

“Let’s hope I’m wrong then,” Arthur murmured against John’s lips before he kissed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'm going to write a dark noir/gangster story.  
Also Me: But what if they kissed in the rain?
> 
> Thank you for reading and for all of your support. I loved this chapter and hope you all did too. <3


	11. Lies and Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After tailing Micah and seeing something he wasn't supposed to, Arthur allows himself to be pulled into one of Dutch's plans, hoping to move the investigation forward. Not everyone is thrilled by this.

It was a quarter to midnight. A cloud of regret hung heavy in the air along with the stench of sweat and stale cigarettes. Two cups of joe deep, Arthur sat hunched along a stained bar counter, eyeing the Blackwater Hotel through the window under the brim of his hat. Next to him was Albert, trying to decipher and elaborate on his own notes jotted hastily during a fiery city council meeting. Anyone who spent more than five minutes here could gather this joint sold more than watered-down coffee. Dames with long faces and soulless stares were working the mugs here while waiting for phone calls that’d bring them to one of the rooms across the street. One was wrist-deep in his coat pocket. Arthur had tossed out enough polite rejections over the past few days that the girls had given up on him, but not on his wallet apparently.

“Other side, sweetheart.”

Although murmured without malice, she fled through the door behind the bar so fast you would’ve thought he threatened her with his gun. Hard to blame her for being flighty; all of the girls were roughed up. If Arthur wasn’t determined to keep up the ruse that he wasn’t a violent son of a bitch around Albert, he’d go upstairs and show the owner a thing or two. An assault charge would get in the way of his surveillance of Micah Bell though.

“Madam Grimshaw would probably throw a fit if she saw this place,” Albert commented dryly.

“That she would.”

A man with his coat collar hiked up emerged from the hotel. Though his face was concealed, Arthur knew who that white fedora with the brown band belonged to. The pair tossed some coins on the counter before quickly exiting. Tailing someone was simple enough. Heaven knows Arthur and Albert had done it enough times, be it for a case or a scoop. They struck a balance between far back and close so as not to arouse suspicion nor lose sight. Their surveillance had been a bust thus far. The only mischief Micah had dabbled in was visiting illegal gambling halls and speakeasies. Those had been cross-town adventures. For the man to keep his pace brisk, head low, ignoring all the cabs driving by, something new was in store.

“You might be able to get up close and personal with that clock tower owl ahead of schedule. By the looks of it, reckon he’s headed to City Hall.”

Albert did a double-take. “Isn’t Sean on patrol in that area on Wednesdays?”

They swore under their breaths as the familiar red bricks, white pillars, and cupola for a crown came into view. Blackwater’s City Hall was one of the nicest buildings the town had to offer. Strange choice for Micah to visit though. Terrible for loitering at night, what with all the little lights concealed in the overhang of the first and second floors and even in the large gazebo south of the entrance. The light spread easily across the grounds, flat and wide open with only a couple of trees thrown in. With nowhere to hide, a pack of smokers clustered around an oak had caught the attention of Officer MacGuire.

Chest puffed out and angling to make a racket, he strolled on over with all the bluster of a rooster. “Alright ya dawdlers, on with ya!”

More than one replied with, “Go fuck yourself, Irish.”

Sean erupted into a tittering laughter. “What would you know about that, hm? The lot of ya don’t look old enough to have chest hair let alone have ever gotten your peckers wet. Come on now. Past your bedtimes, ain’t it? I’d feel like a right bastard writin’ up children so—yeah, that’s right!” The crowd began to disperse, grumbling the whole way. “Get the fuck outta my sight!”

With a smug grin, Sean went right back to twirling his baton as he walked back towards City Hall. None the wiser that Micah Bell, who had concealed himself in the shadow of a storefront, was staring him down. From the alleyway they had ducked into, Arthur and Albert watched as Micah’s gaze rose up the clock tower. Almost midnight. A meeting must be scheduled. Albert clutched his arm and pointed at four black hats steadily approaching from the east. Right on time. All were well-dressed, donning masks, and not shy about carrying heat.

Clearing away hoodlums was one thing, but Arthur didn’t want Sean caught in the middle of whatever this was. Arthur and Albert scrambled down the alleyway, emerging and running across the empty road to enter the grounds from the leftmost side. They tried to remain in the dark patches and keep their steps light on their mad dash towards the building. Unable to grab Sean without Micah seeing, they would have to get his attention some other way.

“C’mere!” Arthur whispered, his heart pounding feverishly as they raced the clock.

Tall but skinny, he easily lifted Albert up to the white railing where he pulled himself over onto the first floor roof. His silhouette vanished as he hurried towards the front. Soon after Sean rounded the corner quickly, eyebrows lost somewhere in his police cap thanks to the odd route his night had taken. Albert must’ve neglected to whisper that Arthur was there for Sean slapped a hand over his mouth upon seeing him. No time for explanations. He hoisted Sean up to the roof just as easily. Arthur was about to run off when to his surprise both Albert and Sean immediately extended their hands. Short on time and with Micah prowling nearby, Arthur backed up, ran, jumped, and grasped onto them. The two men managed to pull him up just as Micah came around with his knife out.

“Where the hell—” Micah placed his hands on his hips, head swiveling in search of Sean.

“Mr. Bell?” a deep male voice called out. Micah swore, tucked his knife back into his coat sleeve, and returned to the front.

Sean hissed, “English, you gotta lose some weight. Swear I just put out my back—”

Arthur shot him a murderous glare and his mouth snapped shut. The three kept low and crept towards the white railing. In the light of the entrance, Micah stood opposite of the four. Arthur couldn’t get over how exposed they were. Anyone could see them. Trust must be absent from this meeting. Can’t pull a fast one outside of the shadows.

“My, my, a paranoid bunch, aren’t ya?” Micah snickered, gesturing casually to the sawed-off shotguns in their hands.

Aside from Dutch’s men, those four could be anyone. O’Driscolls. The police. The Matthews Outfit. A new threat. They looked fresh from the theater in their top hats and fancy overcoats. Two even wore the comedy and tragedy masks. All of them kept their voices annoyingly low as if they knew there were eavesdroppers afoot. The pale moonlight left Arthur’s peripheral vision. To his horror, Albert had blocked it in his attempt to perch himself along the bannister like a gargoyle. He scooted away when Arthur and Sean tried to grab him, keeping his camera ready the whole time.

Comedy gave Micah a small book. He barely glanced at it before slipping the item into his coat, only to whip out his hand. He backhanded the man before him, nearly knocking off his mask. The two clowns in the back instantly had their guns on Micah. He raised his hands in surrender. Done too slow and with too much contempt for Tragedy’s tastes, he struck Micah across the face with his pistol. His fedora fell off. Albert leaned forward.

“That all you got, boys?” Micah stumbled back, but swiftly recovered and spat a well-aimed glob of blood into his eye. He laughed at the recoil and then mimicked the mask’s oversized frown.

The tell-tale click of a camera set off a chain of events. Sean whipped his baton hard. Five heads turned in the direction of where it clattered hard against the pavement. Arthur wrapped two arms around Albert and yanked him out of sight. Footsteps scattered across the pavement. When he peeked through the bars however Micah was still there, rubbing his jaw, eyes on the roof. Arthur ducked. They kept silent and still until they heard him leave as well.

“So, uh, quick question.” Sean sat up. “Just what the hell was that?”

“More trouble for our poor friend here, I suspect,” Albert replied, resting his back against the railing. “Don’t look at me like that, Arthur.”

“What if they saw you?” Arthur rubbed his tired eyes and continued to lay on the cold concrete. Out of the corner of his eye, Blackwater almost passed for pretty with its lonely streets and countless buildings gilded by a hazy golden glow. Too bad the lights marred the night sky.

“A necessary risk.” Albert countered with a sly grin. “Front page material once you figure out what the story is—assuming this is tied to the larger mess.”

Everything was connected. Of that, Arthur was sure. There was too much overlap. The murder. The impending mob war. The murder weapon in Hosea’s office. The attack on the O’Driscolls. The meeting here tonight. A bunch of dots lay before him and it was up to Arthur to draw lines in between like how Annabelle and Bessie used to connect the stars and tell him stories as he laid on the grass between them. Unlucky for him that in the end it’d resemble a spider web instead of a simple celestial pattern. At least Arthur knew what he had to do next though. He needed to get closer to Dutch _and_ Micah. Get his hands on that book.

“I’d bet my life on it.”

\--

Heidi McCourt was buried in the last lonely patch of the Old Blackwater Cemetery. Names on weathered tombstones flickered by as Arthur weaved through the rows of graves. Old gunslingers and desperados gave way to young folk snuffed out by the war or the influenza that followed. When they first met ten years ago, that warm day in Golden Gate Park where they shared stories and a flask under a tree, Heidi wore a white lily in her hair. That’s what he had brought for her today. A whole bouquet of them. Call him sentimental.

“Sorry you got caught up in all this.” Arthur swept off his hat and placed the flowers beneath her name. “John and me, we’re gonna get to the bottom of things. We’re gonna make sure your killer don’t walk free and untangle this whole rotten mess.”

The graveyard was quiet save for the wind rustling the grass and a shovel striking dirt in a fresh grave. Didn’t have much to distract him from his sorrow. What a shame it was Heidi hadn’t lived to see her thirtieth birthday in June. She probably would’ve thrown a hell of a party that Arthur would’ve willingly suffered through. He hated how many women’s lives were cut short by violence; by the men in their lives. His mother, his wife, poor Annabelle, and now Heidi. Not Bessie, though the way cancer ravaged her was nothing short of brutal. As the silhouette of a man grew and slowly shadowed Heidi’s name, Arthur reminded himself dwelling wasn’t doing; wouldn’t make things right.

“Hello, son.”

“You came.”

“Don’t I always?” Dutch said this without an ounce of warmth, taking in the hollowed grounds wearily. “Interesting choice for a meeting.”

There was an accusation in his voice that had every right to be there. Arthur had picked this spot to ruffle his feathers a bit and aid the lie he had cooked up. “Figured I could kill two birds with one stone. Apologize to Miss McCourt and talk to you.”

“What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”

“That’s between me and her, I’m afraid.”

Dutch gave him a look of fond exasperation and clapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Walk with me.”

Like hoisting himself up into a saddle or pulling a trigger, there was an overwhelming familiarity in walking beside Dutch and following his lead. For eight years this had been his place, their well-worn pattern. Now it was an act; part of a larger plan to get Dutch to trust him. Not enough to be let back into the inner circle but one of the outer rings where he could snoop and shift around without getting too close, too involved. As much as Dutch liked to claim he’d welcome him back with open arms Arthur knew better. He nurtured his grudges like they were his children. Dutch would never forgive Arthur for betraying him for Hosea. Same as Arthur would never forgive Dutch for putting him in that position. Any sense of trust struck up between the two would be surface-level only. That’s all he needed though. Arthur needed access to both him and Micah. He had to get in on one of Dutch’s schemes.

When they stopped before the cracked headstone of Greta van der Linde, Arthur read out, “‘Loving mother to her son Dutch,’” he paused, “Thought you said your folks were from up north?”

“I did. What my mother was doing down in Blackwater, I haven’t the faintest idea. That inscription is just proof she never lost her sense of humor. I ran away when I was fifteen and never saw her again.”

“Do you regret that?”

Dutch paused for a long moment, then spoke in a dejected tone. “I have no use for people who refuse to open their eyes and see the world for what it is.”

“Yet you still talk to me after all these years,” Arthur mused. “But you’ve always been one for lost causes.”

Dutch eyed him. “You’re not lost. Confused, but not lost.”

Arthur didn’t know what to make of that and didn’t ask. “Well, I am confused ‘bout why you and Hosea think it’s alright to spy on me.”

“Oh, is that what you wanted to talk about?” he replied casually, as if violating a man’s privacy wasn’t a big deal. “Hosea and I disagree on many things but not when it comes to you. We only want what’s best.” It took all of Arthur’s willpower not to erupt into protest. What’s best for them, not for him. “That hot-headed spendthrift is—”

“Leave him alone, Dutch.”

“—leading you down the wrong path. I know Mr. Marston is the one paying you to investigate my connection to Miss McCourt’s murder.”

If he wanted to show some cheek, Arthur could point out he had never told Dutch that Heidi had been murdered. It wasn’t in his best interest though for things to turn sour. That would come in due time. “He wants the case solved, Dutch. He wanted me to investigate _every_ connection. But that’s neither here nor there now seeing as I’m through with the case.”

Dutch narrowed his eyes. “Oh?”

“Ain’t at liberty to discuss the particulars.”

“Well, now your apology makes sense,” he paused. “Must’ve been something substantial for you to move on.”

An agitated silence grew. “You’ve never been good at that” was left unspoken but Arthur heard it loud and clear. “Let’s just say new evidence forced me to pass the case onto someone less close to it all.”

Out came the cigar. Dutch struck a match along his mother’s gravestone as he digested this information. Didn’t seem too hard to swallow given how pleased he looked. “Hosea’s been implicated, hasn’t he?” Arthur feigned walking away and as expected Dutch blocked him. “You did this before. All those years ago in Valentine when you found out he had gone back to his old ways. Rather than arrest him you resigned.”

Every word of it was true, though they had never spoken about the matter. “Just how much of my life have you spied on?” Arthur growled, though he instantly regretted it when the older man smirked around his cigar. Dutch excelled at getting under people’s skin and Arthur had basically handed him the scalpel.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, reminding himself that things were going well. Dutch had taken the bait and connected the planting of the gun in Hosea’s office with Arthur’s resignation. “If he’s guilty, the police can arrest him. I’m not gonna be the one to send him over. I wouldn’t do that to you neither.”

There was a flash of a genuine grin behind the puff of smoke. Long gone when the air cleared. Guilt prickled under his skin and twisted up his guts worse than snarled barbed wire. You’d think after all this time, after all the lies and deception and utter bullshit that Dutch had put him through that Arthur would be free of remorse when he tried to serve him a taste of his own medicine. Instead Arthur was always the one left with the bitter taste in his mouth.

“How’d Mr. Marston take you resigning from the case?”

Arthur stiffened and spoke carefully, “Disappointed, but he’ll manage.”

Dutch smiled the kind of smile that children give each other when they know a secret that they shouldn’t. Arthur didn’t like it one bit and wanted to move away from the subject of John as fast as possible.

“So, uh, you enjoyin’ your time in Blackwater?”

“It’s tolerable.” Dutch tilted his head. “Without the case, I imagine you have some free time on your hands.” Arthur crossed his arms and he laughed, pulling the cigar from his lips. “Well, don’t look so sour about it. I simply require some assistance with a matter.”

Here we go. “What kind of assistance?”

“Nothing too trying. I am in need of your knowledge.”

Arthur barked out a laugh. “Well, that’s a first.”

Dutch paused, jaw working as if his next words weighed heavily upon his tongue. “You know Saint Denis. None of my men do.”

His request hit Arthur like a ton of bricks. For a moment, he forgot about the case and blanched, “Saint Denis? No. I can’t—I won’t go back there. You of all people should know why.”

“It pains me to ask this of you,” Dutch wrapped an arm around him. “But I need you, Arthur.”

“Dutch—”

“I wouldn’t ask this if I didn’t think you were the only man for the job. Believe me, I sympathize greatly with your desire to never return to that cesspit of depravity. But it won’t be for long. A few days at most.”

His hands were fidgeting so much that Arthur shoved them in his pockets. He refused to look at Dutch, furious he would ask such a thing and at his own rotten luck that he couldn’t say no. Arthur should’ve seen this coming. Saint Denis was one of the coordinates on Micah’s list. Dutch was going to strike a stronghold of Bronte’s and pin it on Hosea like he had with the O’Driscolls.

Guess he had been quiet for too long. Dutch, not knowing an affirmative answer was on the horizon, must have decided his unruly son needed a bit more encouragement. “Maybe you can buy something nice for Mr. Marston while you’re there.”

He shrugged off the arm coiled around him and made a beeline for the cemetery gates, not looking back when Dutch added, “The train departs at ten to eleven tomorrow.”

Arthur may have gotten what he wanted but now he had something new to worry about.

\--

Somehow shutting himself inside the narrow phone booth was less claustrophobic than remaining outside among the crowds of people bustling about the train station. Arthur reached for the mounted telephone. Made of a smooth black, in his warped reflection Arthur could see that he was staring at the rotary dial like it was liable to bite him. He pulled out John’s business card from his wallet and bit his lip when he found the man’s home number newly scrawled on the back. The sly bastard must have stolen it at some point when they were drying out at Beecher’s Hope.

There was so much they needed to talk about but Arthur couldn’t figure out how to go about it without making a fool of himself. Where do they go from here? “To bed” would be John’s response. That was all well and good but Arthur himself didn’t know what he wanted from the man who occupied his thoughts far too much as of late. Always directionless. Always torn between wanting more and more and the guilt the came with that. The thought of John getting hurt because of him kept Arthur up at night. He needed to end it before they both got in too deep but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Maybe when he got back from Saint Denis.

“Hello?”

He couldn’t help but grin at the raspy voice on the other end. “Hello John, it’s Arthur.”

“I was wondering when you’d call.”

“Look, this ain’t a social call.”

“Oh?” Arthur could practically hear John smiling. “I can go somewhere more…private.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Arthur knew John well enough now to know what he was hinting at. “Get your mind out of the damn gutter and listen to me.”

John’s laughter made Arthur wish they were together and not on opposite ends of the city. “Alright, alright. I’m listening.”

In his hesitancy to speak to John, Arthur had yet to tell him about the Micah incident and the impending out-of-town trip. Left it for the last minute like a coward. He figured he could wait on the former until he had a better sense of what exactly he witnessed. As for the latter, he had spent the better part of yesterday trying to come up a half-decent explanation that wouldn’t set the younger man off. A lost cause if there ever was one.

“I’ll be out of reach for a few days,” Arthur said, hoping John wouldn’t ask too many questions. “Have to go to Saint Denis. If you need anythin’ just—”

“No.”

Arthur blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No, you’re not going,” John said more firmly. “You must think I’m some sorta idiot. I know Saint Denis was on that list we found. The last time you went to one of those coordinates you nearly got yourself shot to death!”

“John—”

His voice only got louder. “Dutch is gonna make trouble out there and you just can’t help but stick your nose in, huh? You’re supposed to be focused on Heidi, not the stupid war between him and Hosea!”

“You _are_ an idiot,” Arthur snapped. “I’m only going out to that hellhole _because_ of Heidi. If we’re to move this investigation forward—”

“You willingly got pulled into one of Dutch’s schemes and _I’m_ the idiot?” John laughed harshly. “How can someone so smart be so stupid as well?”

“Will you keep your voice down?” Abigail said in the background. “Any louder and I reckon the neighbors will hear.”

“Arthur’s going to Saint Denis to help Dutch,” John told Abigail.

There was a pause before she replied, “Why would he do a stupid thing like that?”

“I’m tryin’ to figure that out!”

“Give me the phone,” Abigail demanded.

“No, I ain’t done yelling at him yet.”

“Will you two knock it off?” Arthur eyed the growing line of people waiting for the phone through the glass door. “Whether you like it or not, I need to get closer to Dutch and Micah. Working alongside them is the only way to do that. I know what I’m doin’ and I don’t need you two worryin’ yourselves into a fuss over me.”

Were they listening? It was anyone’s guess. There was a flurry of movement and frustrated grunts. Seemed like Abigail was trying to get the phone out of John’s hands. They must have settled on placing their heads together and holding the phone between them because he could still hear John’s agitated huffs when eventually Abigail asked, “Isn’t there some other way?”

“Afraid not, Miss Roberts.”

“Does Mr. Matthews know Dutch is planning to attack Mr. Bronte? Maybe he can protect you?”

“Can’t tell him nor anyone else for that matter. Any intervention from the Matthews Outfit or the police will only end poorly. They’d suspect me of betrayal. Listen Miss Roberts, I have to go—”

“This is exactly what Dutch wants! If you get hurt or die, Hosea will lose his mind. How can you not see that?”

Arthur couldn’t take the anguish in John’s voice and he lashed out, “Marston! Calm down for Christ’s sakes! How many goddamn times do I have to tell you—” There was a sharp clatter as Abigail called out to John. The line went dead. Arthur tapped the switch hook several times. “Hello? Marston? Son of a bitch…”

That couldn’t have gone any worse.

\--

Back against the large window and knee propped up on his seat, Arthur worked on his sketch of the masked man passing Micah the mysterious book. His eyes avoided the left, a page full of words that had gushed out of him when he finally got home the night after he saw John last. He kept a firm hold on his journal, whole body rocking back and forth slightly along with the train. Bill Williamson sat across from him; arms crossed, head down, snoring away. Lucky bastard was out like a light before they even hit Riggs. It had been a few years since he saw him last and they hadn’t been too kind. Bill had put on a few and his hairline was now receding. Javier Escuella was to his right. He was mostly engrossed in a copy of _The Maltese Falcon_ but occasionally his gaze drifted over to Arthur.

“Somethin’ you wanna say, Javier?”

“Hm.” Javier dragged this out. “Not really.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Of course, Javier had every right to be suspicious. Fiercely protective of Dutch who had saved him when he was young and destitute, he didn’t take well to anything he deemed a threat towards his savior. Bill was the same. Not that Arthur begrudged them for it. After all, he was once them. Could be worse too. Arthur would rather sit with them than with Dutch and Micah. As much as he wanted to get close to them, being stuck in a small space with Micah for hours on end? That’d have Arthur throwing himself from the train long before they reached Lemoyne.

When Arthur closed his journal and rose to exit, Javier shut his book too. He raised his hands. “I’m just goin’ for a smoke. Relax, son.”

Javier buried his nose in the pages once more.

There were plenty of smoking parlours on the way to the back of the train, but Arthur passed them by. Peace and quiet was what he sought. No chance for small talk this way. It was a long walk from first-class, through the dining cars, weaving past other restless passengers who were tired of their cramped, cheaper seats. Once outside he inhaled deeply, leaning forward to rest his elbows along the iron rail, admiring the way the sun glinted off Flat Iron Lake as they sailed over Bard’s Crossing.

Just as Arthur reached down for a cigarette, the door creaked open. “There you are, Morgan.”

Arthur rose to his full height, not bothering to pretend he was happy to see Micah. “You need something?”

“No, not particularly. I just feel like we got off on the wrong foot, cowpoke.”

Although he had toyed with the idea of trying to get on this weasel’s good side, Arthur doubted he could muster up a performance of that caliber. Micah knew he had participated in his arrest four years ago in Saint Denis. A betrayal turned into a shootout that left too many innocents riddled with holes and bleeding out on cobblestones. Even at his worst, Arthur could never tolerate senseless violence—which seemed to be a pastime of Micah Bell.

“Well, if you’re aimin’ to fix that I’d suggest you not call me that and head on back so I can smoke in peace.”

Micah wasn’t deterred in the slightest. He shut the door behind him and rested against it. Unable to escape, Arthur shoved the carton back into his pocket and crossed his arms.

“Hell of a shiner you got.” Arthur nodded towards the nasty bruise along the side of his smirking face. “Looks like someone got the better of you.”

“No one gets the better of me, Morgan,” he said testily. “Some idiot tried to mug me a few nights back. Last mistake he’ll ever make.” Micah had said this so effortlessly that if he didn’t know better, Arthur would’ve believed it. Although it was a lie it took a lot of brass or perhaps idiocy to hint at murder over small talk. It was meant to be an intimidation tactic. Even if it weren’t true, Arthur couldn’t ever imagine being scared him.

The laughter that followed came to a sharp stop when Arthur didn’t join in. “You know seeing as we’ll be working together, we might as well try to get along.”

“Or we could stay the hell outta each other’s way.”

“What’s your problem with me, Morgan?”

“How long you got?”

Not one for jokes at his expense, Micah’s lip curled and he stepped closer to Arthur, trapping him between himself and the rail. “Detective Morgan. So high and mighty. Heard you was some sort of war hero too.” Each word was slow and deliberate. “Yet we all know you was and still is one of us even if you try to paint yourself as otherwise.”

“Not all of us take pride in being murderous degenerates.”

“Some lawman you are.” Micah’s face got uncomfortably close to his. “Left the force to go your own way and administer justice as you see fit. Let your two daddies run wild.”

Christ, he was desperate to get under his skin. Micah didn’t have Dutch’s finesse though.

Arthur shoved Micah back. Not hard but enough to warn him to not push his luck. “Well, when snakes like you slither on out of the gallows time and again to kill more innocent folk, it’s hard to continue to place faith in the system.”

“Dutch always said that was your problem. Your lack of faith.”

“I’m sure he did.” Arthur raised his chin and stared down at Micah. “Look, you’re wastin’ my time and yours. Why don’t you go back inside? You and I? We ain’t got nothin’ to talk about.”

Clearly, Micah felt differently. “You know I was surprised when Dutch told me you were through with Heidi’s case. Figured you’d want to see it through.”

“It’s in better hands now.” Arthur shrugged. “You seem pretty unfazed for a man whose woman was murdered.”

“Not much I can do about it now, can I? Suicide. Murder. She’s dead and nothing’s gonna bring her back.”

The bitterness in his voice made Arthur’s brows furrowed. Either he was genuine in his sorrow or an excellent actor. An innocent man would’ve sought him out upon learning his sweetheart was murdered. Try to offer some sort of help, especially if they had been at the scene of the crime. Micah had never given his account of New Year’s Eve to the police. Arthur didn’t know yet if Micah had pulled the trigger but he’d placed all his chips on the man’s involvement in her death.

“Y’know I can’t for the life of me figure out what Heidi saw in you.”

“Why are you here, cowpoke? We all know you disapprove of the racketeering business.”

“I’m here ‘cause Dutch asked me to help keep you fools alive. When you attack Bronte, you’re gonna need to get out of Saint Denis fast and I know all the ins and outs.”

Micah gave him a look of disbelief. “So, what, I’m supposed to believe this a form of charity?”

“Call it what you want. I don’t care. I just know what happens when Dutch and his boys get cornered. I want to keep innocents from getting caught in the crossfire. Last thing Saint Denis needs is another shootout.”

“Real funny, Morgan.” Micah wagged his finger at Arthur, opening the door behind him. “Real funny.”

The door wasn’t even closed before Arthur had a cigarette in his mouth. Didn’t do much though. Several deep drags brought him no relief. He flicked some of the ashes over the side, watching them fall away, and began wondering if perhaps all of this was a mistake. Oh well. He was in it now and would see it through. At least John wasn’t here though. Of that he was grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Arthur.
> 
> I went with the [original design for the Blackwater clocktower](https://d2skuhm0vrry40.cloudfront.net/2018/articles/2018-11-02-13-10/9x.jpg/EG11/resize/690x-1/quality/75/format/jpg) for this chapter, not the one shown in RDR2.
> 
> A big thank you to everyone for your ongoing support for this story and your wonderful comments. It means so much to me. Until next time! <3


	12. Follow the Fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation with Molly proves enlightening and gives Arthur a chance to snoop around. Meanwhile the attack on Bronte leads to utter chaos in the streets of Saint Denis.

Somehow Saint Denis had gotten worse in his absence. There was more of everything. More buildings, more noise, more beggars and orphans and prostitutes leaking out of the alleyways into streets clogged with tourists and traffic jams and construction projects with spiraling costs. Too many in too little space; all chomping at the same slice of the American Dream and there wasn’t enough for everyone. Arthur was coming in fast on the frenzy, zigzagging down an iron fire escape after having left Micah’s hotel room empty-handed. Just his luck that the mysterious book was likely on his person. If he was a woman getting his clothes off would be a straightforward, if harrowing, endeavor. Now Arthur was going to have to get creative.

Couldn’t exactly hit the ground running. The crowds were as thick as Lemoyne air in August. Over the last decade the northeast end fell in line with the rest; all glitz and little substance. Fake bohemians—the real ones left when tourists “discovered” the slums—smoked over their café coffees not-so-secretly laced with bourbon. Streetcars and cars sparred for supremacy over the cobblestone roads; each driver convinced their time was more important than others. Fools stopped for pictures, striving to keep both the destitute and Arthur’s irate face at having crashed into them out of their shots. The most ridiculous sight though was Molly O’Shea fighting the flow of traffic. Arms weighed down by too many shopping bags and not crass enough to shove her way through, she was bobbling around like a buoy in rough waters.

“Miss O’Shea! You tryin’ to get mugged?” It came out harsher than intended and her face pinched into that look high-class dames give you when they’re rearing up to launch a nasty retort. She held her fire however when he scooped up all her purchases with ease. “You clear out a whole store?”

“Just about.” Molly adjusted her floppy cloche hat and then slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his arm like Eliza used to. He ignored the pang in his chest and let her hold on. “Couldn’t decide between ‘em so I just bought ‘em all.”

Arthur had to laugh. “What’s Dutch gonna say about that?”

“Oh, he won’t notice. He don’t care what I do.”

Her voice had petered out by the end. Arthur wanted to say something to lift her spirits but figured he shouldn’t stick his nose where it don’t belong. What did he even know about Molly? She was Dutch’s woman, an alright singer, and martinis made her accent stronger. In other words, not much. Nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to drop her off at the Hôtel Bordeaux like a package for someone else to deal with. So that was how Arthur found himself looking out at the Lannahechee from ten floors up again. Various shades of gold were splashed across the fabrics, furniture, and floor of Molly and Dutch’s suite. How far they had come from worn bedrolls on the open plains.

“You don’t have to go!” Molly reached forward when Arthur set down her bags, only to withdraw and tuck a wayward curl behind her ear with a nervous chuckle. “It won’t take me long to get dressed.” She gestured to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable.”

A decent man would scram; good manners quickening his steps. Instead Arthur made a show of sitting down and the moment when Molly vanished into the bathroom with a new dress in hand, he bounced into action. Drawers and cupboards thrown open. Furniture peeked under. Suitcases rifled through. Arthur searched with the same speed he would have looted the place all those years ago, knowing a certain gangster could return at any moment.

“Dutch said somethin’ about you living here once? You don’t seem like the type.” Molly said from behind the closed door. “Not to be rude or nothin’.”

Arthur’s lips curled into what was probably a pathetic smile. “No, you’re right, Miss O’Shea.” Finding nothing in the desk, he got down on his hands and knees by the bed. “Don’t quite know how I managed to stay here for five years.”

A bold-faced lie. He came because it was as far removed from his old life as possible, occupation aside. He stayed because Eliza and Isaac had loved it. So exciting and different from the small towns out west. Countless playmates thanks to gaggles of children on every block. He couldn’t tell Molly that though. He couldn’t tell her how time hadn’t eased the pain of their loss. He definitely couldn’t tell her how he had tried to put down roots for them, not knowing staying in law enforcement had salted the earth so that nothing would grow.

“Living by the water is nice, isn’t it? Grew up by the Liffey myself. It always looked so beautiful at sunset with the way the light hit the water.”

He had a feeling Molly was talking more to herself than him. Not that Arthur minded. There was nothing worse than having to talk about himself. “You miss home?”

“More than I thought I would,” she admitted after a long pause, opening the bathroom door. Partially under the bed, Arthur shot up so fast he nearly toppled over. Fortunately, she was too busy struggling with a silver bracelet to notice. Her velvet dress, the look and color of crushed grapes, swished around her feet.

“I visited Saint Denis quite a few years back with a couple of girlfriends. That was when I first met Heidi.” Molly held her wrist out. “You were friends with her, right?”

“I was.” Arthur said without missing a beat, despite his growing suspicion this was a set-up. The way she had invited him in, the casualness of it despite them being near strangers, it stood out like a sour note in a symphony. He didn’t want to jump to any conclusions though. Molly might just be lonely. After all, she had struck up a conversation with him of all people.

He successfully closed the bracelet’s clasp and Molly smiled in thanks. “How’d you two meet?”

“At a costume party. I went as Lillian Gish.” She went to the vanity to dab perfume on her neck. “She and her date were dressed up as police officers, I believe.”

Funny how the world works. That was the week Heidi came out for a visit. October 1924, if he recalled correctly. Arthur had lent her the costumes.

Wait. Why not do that tonight? Disguising themselves as cops would allow them to move more freely. They wouldn’t appear out of place and better yet, it would force Micah to change his clothes. He could grab some old uniforms from his former colleagues. A decent bribe should keep the questions at bay.

“Guess this was before she met Mr. Bell.” She eyed him in the mirror. “You don’t like him much, do you?”

His hunch might be right on the nose. There was a deliberate edge to her questions. Possibly Dutch asked her to strike up a seemingly innocent conversation to gauge whether he had really given up the case. Arthur wouldn’t give her the slip though. Not yet. He’d proceed with caution and let things play out.

“What she saw in him I’ll never know.”

Molly started laughing, using her gloved hand to conceal a toothy grin. “Well, um, you’ve seen how he is ‘round Dutch. He can be charming when he wants.”

Oh, Arthur had seen plenty. Charming wasn’t the word for it. Micah spent most of his time buttering up Dutch like a damned biscuit.

“And sometimes you fall for someone you know is wrong for you but you can’t help how ya feel.” Molly said softly, then blurted out, “Don’t tell him I said that!”

“I won’t, Miss O’Shea.”

She visibly relaxed. “Enough of that. Call me Molly.” She plucked her white fur wrap from the closet and draped it around her shoulders. “Alright. Let’s get on with it.” Arthur blinked in confusion. “You’re taking me to dinner.”

“I am?”

Molly raised her chin. “If Dutch van der Linde thinks I’m gonna spend another night cooped up in this hotel room, he’s got another thing coming. You used to live here. You must know the best restaurant in town.”

“Hm. That’d be a rundown jambalaya joint just off Toulouse that operates outta an old vaudeville theater.” Molly made a face. He opened the door for her, trying not to laugh. “C’mon. I have to stop by police headquarters first but after that I’ll take you someplace nice.”

Why not? Dutch was the one paying.

\--

In the shadows of the docks, Arthur stood alongside eight others. Stacked shipping containers kept them out of sight. For now. Whole place had that damp, rotten wood smell. The kind that clings to your nostrils long after you left. Not that Blackwater was any better. The old Saint Denis harbor just had an extra century of filth under its belt. Murky water sloshed against the pillars; a putrid dark green like the money that had colored it. The air was sour with the fumes from the cargo ships that drifted up and up and mixed with smoke from the stacks jutting out of the magnificently-lit city. Arthur wondered if one day the lights would burn so bright it’d make night seem like day when walking among them.

“I hate to break it to you but none of you really look like Saint Denis’s finest.” Dutch grinned at the eight men in blue. He was the only one donning evening wear, planning to join Molly while his most trusted men (and Arthur) set off to attack Bronte’s pride and joy: his exports.

Arthur was a fool and suspected he’d always be but that didn’t make him feel any better about it. His history of doing stupid things was long and winding. Repeatedly aiding and abetting two gangsters. Suicide runs across No Man’s Land. Thinking he could escape the consequences of his past. Letting his desire for John override all reason and restraint. Place your bets. Chances were tonight would be yet another addition to that esteemed list.

He adjusted his police cap. “Considering they once hired a degenerate like me, I’d say we fit right in.”

Dutch conceded the point with a generous nod before peering over his shoulder at the long boardwalk. Flashlights held by genuine officers of the law shone in the near distance; beams highlighting the monotonous work of the longshoremen and those masquerading as such.

“I’m sure we all can appreciate the delicate nature of tonight.” There was a murmur of agreement. “We can’t afford any mistakes, gentlemen.”

The plan? Get in. Destroy the hooch. Escape in one of the getaway cars. Return in a different vehicle. Mistakes were inevitable but Arthur kept quiet. If it were up to him, they’d keep driving and not look back but Dutch wanted to linger.

“You know, it’ll be easier to get out if we deal with Bronte’s thugs the first time around,” Micah said slowly, eyeing Dutch cautiously. “Toss the bodies into the water and be done with it. Quick and quiet.”

Arthur made a face. “If someone sees cops killin’ random folk, this whole thing is gonna come down on our heads. Is that what you want?”

Bill, who had been tugging roughly at his too-tight collar, spoke up. “Me and Javier scoped out the place and there’s too many of ‘em. The cops are on his payroll too. We think it’d be best to sneak by rather than start anything.”

Micah ignored Bill entirely and gave Arthur a withering look. “Don’t see what _you_ got to complain about. You’re just the lookout. Your hands will stay clean.” He shrugged casually. “Besides, that’s what we’d normally do if Dutch weren’t so concerned about your delicate sensibilities.”

“Now listen here you—”

“We don’t have time for in-fighting.” Dutch shot Arthur the same silent look to behave that Hosea liked to use. “Bronte’s shipments are loaded onto the cargo ships starting at eleven o’clock.” He glanced at his golden wristwatch. “You have 23 minutes. Stick to the plan.”

“Alright. Sorry boss.” Micah raised his hands in surrender. “Just don’t want your plan to hit any snags, is all.”

“I’ll catch up,” Arthur told Bill when everyone went their separate ways. “Gonna check on the cars one last time. Make sure they’re well-hidden so no cops will spot ‘em.”

“Alright, Morgan. Just don’t take long.”

Lie out of the way, Arthur left the docks, passed by the trains parked for the night, then stepped back out into the streets busy with pedestrians and traffic. Sleep and Saint Denis didn’t exactly go hand-in-hand. No one spared him more than a moment’s worth of attention thanks to his get-up. Or maybe his surly expression. Javier had joked he looked like a dog just waiting to bite off someone’s hand.

Déjà vu had been hitting him hard all weekend but now it dealt a near knockout punch when he caught a glimpse of his distorted reflection in the car window. It was fitting. Officer Morgan had long abandoned the straight and narrow. He retrieved the key taped along the front-left wheel well and opened the back door. Micah’s clothes lay in a heap and Arthur began rummaging through them. Cigarettes, lighter, a candy wrapper, hotel key, a necklace with a heart-shaped pendant, gum, and—that’s it? He shook out the shirt, pants, and coat, then felt all along the fabric. No hidden compartments. Nothing. Another bust. Where _was_ that damn book?

“Probably back in Blackwater, dumbass,” Arthur muttered, squinting at the odd necklace before placing it back into the black coat.

Of course neither Dutch nor Micah brought anything that would cast suspicion their way. Not with a private detective nearby. Hell, other than asking him to devise an escape plan, they had kept Arthur in the dark about how exactly they were going to destroy the booze. Arthur would have to keep doing “favors” for Dutch in order to seem more trustworthy. Or at least to create more chances to poke around. John was going to throw a fit.

Upon returning to the docks, his uniform helped him scare off some loiterers and get past a night guard. Back into the shadows however to scale a stack of wood planks that stood twice his height. It gave him a decent view. Javier and Cleet (or was it Joe?) were by a large crate full of fireworks. A number of Bronte’s men were directing a ship as it reversed towards the loading point. None of the longshoremen looked at Officer Williamson when he strolled by.

So far, so good, though the brainlessness of it made his guts churn. Stealing the ship once it was loaded would’ve been easier and safer. “We’re above petty thievery,” had been Dutch’s sound rejection. The real reason? He couldn’t frame Hosea that way. A man who distills his own alcohol has no need to steal. To aid the ruse, Dutch had pretended to be Hosea throughout the weekend when he thought Arthur wasn’t paying attention. Even their suites were booked under “H. Matthews.” Watch his men leave false clues behind. Hosea would find some way to fix things, but the whole situation felt like being trapped behind the wheel of a car he knew would crash, for he had cut the brakes himself.

A loud splash made Arthur sit upright. A man with bulging eyes and his throat slashed from ear-to-ear stared upwards; blood rapidly darkening the water around him. A strangled yelp was followed by a loud thud. Someone was tackled to the ground. Jeering erupted over the familiar smacks of knuckles battering flesh. Curious heads turned and searched for the commotion, only to snap back as a series of fires ignited along the docks.

That’s why he was the lookout. To keep him out of the way.

“Goddamn it, Dutch.”

Police whistles sounded off. His boots hit the boardwalk hard. Micah was the one on the ground, stabbing his stiletto knife over and over into the torso of a dying man trying in vain to choke the life out of him. Arthur kicked the man aside, then grabbed Micah by the scruff of his uniform and tossed him behind an overturned boat as gunfire broke out. Arthur slid behind a metal shipping container. Bullets pinged each time they missed him.

“Quick and quiet, huh?”

“Quit whining and shoot, damn you!” With two revolvers firing, Micah shot his way over to Arthur’s spot. “I’m sure even a man with your limited intelligence can figure out another way to get us outta here.”

Arthur took out a sniper perched on the railing of a ship. His body dropped straight into the water. “What makes you think I care whether you get out alive?”

“Call it a hunch.” A grin crawled slowly across his face. “Dutch is kinda fond of me and he’d be awful sore if his son let him down. Again.”

Angry yelling in both languages swelled with the flames; the latter jumped from one wooden crate to another. Faster and faster as more bottles shattered. Heart pounding with exhilaration, Arthur ran into the fray. Micah followed. Boxes, barrels, and stacks of supplies gave them the cover needed to weave up the cluttered boardwalk. He called out for Bill and Javier in the gaps between the gunfire.

Smoke began to obscure his view. Thick and suffocating despite the open air, Arthur spun around disoriented as if lost in a fog. Feet pounded the boardwalk; streaming in, not out. Back-up for Bronte. Arthur found Micah, grabbed his arm, and crouched down to reload. The impending threat gave him his bearings. Outnumbered and soon to be overwhelmed, trying to round up the others was a lost cause. They needed to get out of there or they would all die. They needed a distraction.

“Over here!” Javier yelled from behind a shipping container.

Another crate of liquor went up in flames. Arthur and Micah shielded their faces and dove next to Javier as the glass blew up. The shards briefly illuminated the dense fumes like sparks against the night sky. The gunfire and the screams became muted as an idea took hold. He hoisted himself up, scanning the area for the box of fireworks. The fire and smoke made it hard to tell what was what on the docks. Javier came up beside him, shooting at anything that posed a threat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Micah shooting everything in his path as he fled without them.

Arthur locked his eyes on the crate. He nudged Javier. “Go!”

Once Javier dropped down, he fired. The bullet pierced through the wood. Too many fireworks exploded simultaneously, setting off an enormous blast of color and sound. Ears ringing, he couldn’t hear what Javier was saying but got the gist from how he kept tugging at his arms. They ran as fast as their legs would allow. The world was awash in reds and blues. Hopefully the others were using this chance to escape. Sparks flew as bullets riddled the freight cars. Arthur and Javier weaved through the trains then split upon hitting the sidewalk. Police cars now blocked the quickest way to the getaway car. Half the officers were trying to clear out nosy civilians to make room for the firetrucks. The others were bound for the chaos in the harbor.

The pressure in his ears finally eased as he dashed up a nearby alleyway, dodging trashcans and the destitute sleeping on flattened cardboard. His heavy breathing and hurried footsteps echoed along the winding brick walls. Sirens wailed in the background. Pursuers hot on his tail, Arthur couldn’t slow. If he could just get to the car, he might have a chance.

Arthur rounded a corner and hoisted himself over a fence. The car was across the street. His heart sank. Gasoline poured out from the shot-up tank, pooling along with the blood of two men with half their faces blown off. Down the road, Micah slipped into a wide gap between two apartment buildings. By the time Arthur caught up, he was climbing up hastily stacked broken furniture towards a fire escape ladder hung too high from the ground. Once he latched onto the lowest bar, Micah kicked the furniture upon spotting Arthur, forcing him to jump back as it toppled over with a loud crash.

“Sorry cowpoke.” Micah drawled as he ascended the fire escape two steps at a time. “It’s every man for himself.”

“Son of a—”

Bronte’s men had split up apparently, for they were now closing in on either side. Can’t climb. Can’t hide. Can’t escape. A fly in a spider’s web. It would be a fool’s errand to try to shoot his way out but Arthur had never been the type to surrender if only his life was on the line. He raised his gun to the south, more than ready to die, but the group began pushing and shoving frantically. A black and yellow taxi drove through, knocking aside those who had failed to get out of the way. There were screams of agony as Arthur flattened himself against the brick wall. The cab whipped by. It tore through the other half of Bronte’s men, though they were luckier and scattered in time. The taxi skidded to a halt and the passenger door was thrown open.

“Arthur!” John yelled.

His feet were moving before his brain caught up, unable to make sense of how John was here. The only logical explanation was that Arthur was dead. One of those bullets rang true and this was a delusion of a dying mind. But then John grabbed his coat, yanked him in, and sped off before Arthur had even shut the door. This _was_ real. The impatient bastard.

“Picked a hell of a weekend to stay sober,” John said. “I searched every goddamn gin joint and no one could place you.”

Maybe all that running and blood pumping was catching up to him. His thoughts became as jagged as his breaths. John was here. John came here for _him_. It was too much to take in and not sure how to feel, he lashed out.

“Have you lost your goddamn mind, Marston?” Arthur snapped, slamming the door shut as John made a hard left. In the rear-view mirror, he watched some of Bronte’s men scramble up from the pavement. “You got some nerve showing up here, boy. What the hell were you thinking?” Arthur immediately cut off John. “Let me guess. Thinking didn’t factor into it, huh?”

“Jesus! Is that the thanks I get for saving you?” Tie missing. Hair messy. Eyes darting. Arthur was half tempted to take the wheel from the wild and frantic creature next to him. “Ungrateful son of a bitch.”

His words lacked any bite though. John kept goddamn _smiling_ at Arthur, unable to conceal his relief at finding him.

“I followed the fireworks.” John said this like Arthur should be proud of him. “Figured it wasn’t, y’know, normal for like a hundred to go off at once. Then I just drove around ‘til I spotted you. Saw Micah too. Where’d he go?”

“To hell, with any luck.” Hopefully he would fall off a roof or something.

“Look, we’ll be alright. We’re gonna get out of this. You give me directions—” John adjusted the rear-view mirror. “Shit.”

Three black sedans were racing up behind them. John’s gaze narrowed as he shifted gears before stomping on the gas pedal. Both were thrown back as the car accelerated. He made an abrupt right onto Canal Street. Countless faces flickered by and oversized, flashing signs came at them from every angle. Theaters and sleaze parlors littered both sides of the road beckoning the thick night crowds in. People drank openly here. Not like any cops were around to stop them, what with most of the police force down at the burning harbor. Even on a normal night, most citizens considered it their moral duty to undermine prohibition.

“Where are you going?” Arthur shouted as John barely avoided hitting a drunkard who had stumbled onto the road.

“How the hell should I know?” John retorted, narrowly escaping a near collision with a streetcar. He swerved around other drivers impeding his recklessness, ignoring the blaring of horns and crude gestures. “I’ve never been here before!”

“Take a left!”

John followed his instructions but their pursuers kept on them. When they soared past the Bastille Saloon, the light by John’s window exploded. They yelped in surprise. Great. Those fools were shooting at them now. Equally worried about a bullet to the skull or John crashing and sending them headfirst through the windshield, Arthur reloaded his Colt and climbed into the backseat. Gunmen were hanging onto the sides of their cars. John wasn’t an easy target though, weaving back and forth, occasionally passing into the wrong side of the road. Despite his white-knuckled grip on the wheel, there was a confidence in him, dodging oncoming traffic and red lights and terrified pedestrians with ease.

“You done this before?”

“What?” His eyes flashed with either excitement or terror. Maybe both. “Drive like a madman through the streets of Saint Denis? No, can’t say I have.”

More bullets came, shattering the window behind him. Arthur covered his head and neck as glass shards rained down. The taxi’s wheels skidded as John veered hard to the right. Out of patience, Arthur stuck his arm through the broken window. Why kill the gunmen when he could eliminate the threat altogether? As always, an incessant clock ticked in the back of his mind. Its soft beat grew louder and louder as he fired at their wheels. Tires screeched as the drivers lost control. A few of the gunmen tumbled off. Another car slammed into a streetlight and another sailed right into it.

A sharp right threw him into the passenger door. Arthur burst into a wheezing laughter when no one followed. He ran a shaking hand through his hair as he slumped down and lay on the broken glass. His body rocked with the motions of the car. Wholly spent and still not convinced this wasn’t a bizarre dream, even his voice sounded exhausted. “What will you tell the driver you borrowed this taxi from?”

“Borrowed? I stole it.”

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed through his nose.

\--

Foreboding when even graced by daylight, the Saint Denis Cemetery was thoroughly unpleasant to traverse after midnight. Grounds and graves blanketed by a rolling fog, the dim lights didn’t do much except cast long shadows. Towering stone walls toppled with iron spikes loomed above Arthur and John. After ditching the wrecked taxi in a vacant lot, he had decided to take a shortcut through the cemetery back to the Hôtel Bordeaux. He was supposed to debrief with Dutch and the others but frankly he just wanted to grab his stuff, grab John, and go home. Before his emotions had been scattered but now they had settled into a classic: quiet, seething rage. The silent treatment didn’t sit too well with John however.

“For Christ’s sakes! Slow down, will ya?” John tugged at Arthur’s arm, startling slightly when a dog started barking somewhere among the graves. “Why are you so mad? I was tryin’ to help!”

Not one to be ignored, John blocked Arthur, arms wide. “Did you really expect me to just—just sit around at home? And what, twiddle my thumbs ‘til you came back? You want me to let you die next time? Is that it?”

In the days that followed, Arthur still had no clue what came over him when he shoved John into the large wooden doors of a mausoleum and kissed him. If you could call it that. Their lips were together but it was all teeth and noses colliding and fistfuls of fabric. John retaliated by biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, breathing out a huff of laughter as Arthur hissed. He chased after John’s lips, the metallic taste still upon his as they came together once more. John was everywhere. A hand tugging at his hair, holding him close, his tongue in Arthur’s mouth, at the forefront of his thoughts. Arthur could feel the hint of a smile when John dragged his teeth along his jaw, sinking down on the soft flesh below his ear. Arthur moaned and tilted his head back, giving John free range to nip and suck.

“I wish I understood you,” John whispered into his neck.

You and me both, he thought, pulling John closer. Chests pressed together, Arthur could feel his warmth but it wasn’t enough. Desperate to run his hands along his skin, Arthur rucked up John’s shirt and delighted at how the slender waist felt under his greedy touch. When John ripped open the uniform jacket, Arthur could not remember the last time he had gotten so painfully hard in so short a time. Arthur parted John’s legs with his thigh and felt his own need pressing into him. Lips stinging as they parted, the loss of him earned a small whine in protest, though he writhed under Arthur’s hold.

“Arthur,” John croaked, watching him sink down and tear at his belt, “you don’t have to.”

He wanted to. God, he wanted nothing more. John’s weak protest was cut off by a guttural moan when Arthur wrapped a firm hand around his cock, drawing him out. Thick and throbbing and hot, already leaking with need, Arthur dragged his tongue slowly along the underside before wetting and wrapping his lips around the length. John’s head banged against the mausoleum doors. They creaked loudly and he swore, hands leaving Arthur’s head to rub the back of his own. Arthur cracked up and withdrew with an obscene pop.

“You idiot,” he grumbled fondly.

Knowing some smart ass remark was on its way, Arthur rendered John incapable of speaking by devouring him. He was a man starved. It had been years since Arthur had done this. Years. Desperate meetings behind speakeasies in the wake of deep mourning had brought him only shame and so he chose to go without. This was different though. This was to feel, not to forget. For a moment Arthur worried he would not please John but the younger man’s gaze held nothing but open lust, carding his fingers through his hair so tenderly that Arthur couldn’t meet his gaze. Out of practice, his mouth eventually grew tired so he pulled back and sucked on only the head, while his hand worked on the shaft. John didn’t mind, didn’t even bother to suppress his wanton moans, somehow amplified by the silence of the graveyard. Arthur half worried he would come from the sound of him alone.

“Arthur, Arthur,” John’s breathless panting was becoming more frantic.

As much as he delighted in the way his thighs trembled, straining to not thrust forward, Arthur grabbed hold of those slim hips and took more of John into his mouth again. John was here. John was alive. John had put himself into danger because of him. It was all too much and Arthur was at a loss how to communicate what he wanted to. He hoped his mouth could still impart how he felt; that his tongue could press into him what he wanted to say. John came with a sharp cry, Arthur’s name on his lips and fingers ensnared in his hair.

Unable to hold himself up, he slid down the door, only to crawl towards Arthur. Somehow not out of energy, John breathlessly kissed and pawed at him, not bothered by the taste of himself. Arthur groaned at this but he pulled John’s hands away, shaking his head in lieu of speaking. John sat there, looking lost and hurt, as Arthur took himself into his own hand. He had barely begun to work himself before he spilled out onto the grass.

The silence was stark. They sat there. Waiting for their hearts and breathing to slow. Waiting for the other to speak. Arthur didn’t want to talk about anything. He didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to do much of anything except maybe drink himself into oblivion. Arthur tucked himself back in and stood up wearily. Almost every muscle seized up in complaint and Arthur never felt so old. John was still on the ground, still confused as ever.

He extended a hand but John simply stared at it. “Is this the part where you yell at me?”

Arthur blinked, baffled by both the question and the bitterness in John’s voice.

“Sorry, I just—” He winced. “Say something, will ya? What are you thinking?”

“Thinking that you talk too damn much,” he murmured. Thinking about how beautiful John was. How reckless and wonderful and maddening he was. “How much I wish we met under different circumstances.” Arthur looked at him dead-on. “Dutch knows. He knows you’re more than just a client. If he knows that, he knows about your family and—”

There was a flash of something in his eyes. Something sinister. It darkened his whole face and strangely reminded him of Dutch. That look of pure malice when threatened.

“I won’t let anything happen,” Arthur promised. “To you or your family.”

“You think I want anything to happen to you?” John snapped. “I know you’re mad but you’d be dead right now if I weren’t here.”

“You could’ve _died_, you fool.”

“Why is my life more valuable than yours?” Arthur was _not_ having this conversation. He tried to walk away but John grabbed onto him. “You wanna trust Dutch blindly then that’s your business but I don’t and—”

Why? Why go to all this trouble for him? “You barely know me.”

“I know enough. You’re good and kind and honest.” Oh God. If John was going to keep talking like that Arthur was going to have to gag him. “You treat me real decent and just don’t push me away. Alright? We’re safer together. You know we are.”

Arthur raised a tentative hand to John’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly over the scars. Doubtful he could push him away even if he wanted to.

Apparently his silence was good enough for John, who beamed and placed his hand over his. “You know, it’s a nice change kissin’ you with dry clothes on.”

He squinted at him. “That first one don’t count. You was half drowned.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He leaned in but Arthur turned his head and the kiss landed on his cheek. John laughed and broke away, nodding towards the cemetery gates. “C’mon, let’s go home. Ain’t nothing but trouble for you here.”

“I can’t.” There was so much he needed to tell him. “Soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of an experimental chapter. Easily the craziest I have ever written. Let me know if it's too much and I'll scale back in the future. Thank you for taking the time to read and for your ongoing support for this story. <3
> 
> Notes:  
\- Saint Denis in the 1930s was heavily inspired by--wait for it--New Orleans in the 1920s and 1930s. [[x](http://richcampanella.com/assets/pdf/article_Campanella_Preservation-in-%0APrint_2012_May_Night%20on%20the%20Town.pdf)] [[x](https://www.vianolavie.org/2014/04/10/know-louisiana-the-french-quarter-renaissance-1920s-85836/)] [[x](https://www.hnoc.org/publications/first-draft/liquor-capital-america%E2%80%94new-orleans-during-prohibition)] [[x](https://legacy.lib.utexas.edu/maps/historical/new_orleans_detail_1920.jpg)]  
\- Here's [the 1926 taxi](https://www.hemmings.com/blog/index.php/2013/02/17/sia-flashback-rides-for-rent-1926-studebaker-taxi/) that inspired the one featured in the chapter. Also, seatbelts as we know them had not been invented yet. Lapbelts weren't even in regular use in 1931.


	13. Tidying Loose Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lazy morning with John turns into a violent afternoon when Arthur confronts Micah. The trouble in Saint Denis follows our detective home.

The sun was higher in the sky than it should be. Light streaked through his fingers, glaringly bright, before his lazy hand fell away. Let the moon take its place for all he cared. Warm, well-rested, and wrapped protectively around John, Arthur wasn’t too inclined to move. Hardly helped that he was ready to fall apart like an old car held together by spit and glue; muscles only too eager to remind him he wasn’t young anymore. Worn pillows. Threadbare sheets. Peeling wallpaper. Must have tucked themselves away at some sleazy motel. Not that it mattered. Arthur pressed a kiss to the back of John’s neck. He could get used to this.

John tilted back to reveal a sleepy smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Arthur murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips that were still sore from yesterday. Guess he was wrong about John being all bark and no bite. Damn teeth were as sharp as his tongue.

“How you feelin’?”

“Like shit,” he grunted. “The fact we’re gonna have to get up soon don’t sit too well with me.”

“Stay here then.” John rested his cheek back on the pillow. “I’m sure you can find something better to do.”

“Like what?” Arthur had barely finished speaking before John rocked his backside against him. “Christ.” He grabbed John’s hip. “Ain’t been up for more than five seconds and already you’re startin’ up with that?”

“You can’t blame a man for trying.” Grin now impish as he turned over, Arthur rolled his eyes. “After last night? C’mon. To hell with ‘em! They can wait for you.”

A soft hum in agreement was his sole response.

Before they had passed out unceremoniously, he had told John everything. Aside from having to stop the impulsive fool from hunting down Micah, he had taken it all in stride. Even the part about Dutch being an ongoing project. Arthur sighed through his nose. What a weekend. No closer to solving Heidi’s murder yet he had sunken deeper into this mess between Dutch and Hosea and blackened his soul a bit more—if that was still possible. The interconnections didn’t lessen the sour taste in his mouth. Too bad there was a whole wide world beyond their motel room, full of problems and people and things beyond his control. Things he needed to deal with. Arthur wanted to shove it all away with both hands and just stay here, stay with John, and forget they were caught in the middle of a worsening storm.

As John arranged Arthur’s arms to his liking, he shot him a questioning look. Is this alright? Arthur nodded and John settled in. Funny he sought permission for that. As if intimacy required more caution than sex. Perhaps it was as foreign to John as it was to him.

He wondered about John and how there came to be two of them. One kind-hearted and boyishly earnest. Loving father. Compassionate employer. Loyal friend who would be damned before he let Heidi’s killer get away with murder. The other was selfish and relentless, who tried to cover up secrets he saw as shameful behind bravado and extravagance. As curious as Arthur was, it’d be hypocritical to try to pull out all the dark things John had tucked deep inside. If you shook Arthur the skeletons in his closet would rattle loud and clear.

Some things were as plain as the scars on his face though. No amount of expensive clothes or fancy cars could hide how his mannerisms and way of speaking revealed someone who had grown up poor, uneducated, and unwanted. Arthur wanted to tell John he didn’t care, that he was the same. Bringing it up however would undoubtedly embarrass John, maybe even upset him. Heaven knows his temper was like a firework. All it took was a simple spark to set him off.

“I can hear you thinking.” John’s breath was hot against Arthur’s neck. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Ah, they ain’t even worth that,” he paused, fingers playing with the fabric of John’s white shirt, now heavily wrinkled. “Just…I don’t want you stealin’ or killin’ no more. Especially on my behalf. You got a family who needs you.”

He raised himself enough so they were eye-to-eye. “I don’t think I killed anyone. Maybe broke a couple of legs.” His attempt at light-heartedness fell flat and John frowned. “They were gonna kill you. I—I didn’t think. I just stepped on the gas pedal.” His hold on Arthur tightened as his stare grew intense. “I ain’t sorry.”

Arthur shushed John. “Don’t get yourself all worked up.”

“I ain’t a good man,” John blurted out. “I’d do it again if I had to.”

“I ain’t askin’ you to be a good man. I’m askin’ you to be smart. You need to walk the line for your family’s sake. Can’t do much for ‘em behind bars or six feet under.” John lay his head back on Arthur’s chest and from there a warmth blossomed, spreading under his skin down to the tips of his fingers and toes. “Nothing is more important than family, John.”

“I know.”

\--

One in the afternoon was the punctual hour in which Arthur showed his face. Front desk at the Hôtel Bordeaux directed him to the Jade Dragon. Like a diamond covered with grit, the rundown exterior gave no indication of the vibrance within. Its namesake was splashed across the whole back wall, the swirling greens of the beast clashed with the reds and oranges gushing from its wide mouth. He remembered how Isaac had gawked up at the mural, dazzled by the monster. The hostess, a tiny woman with her black hair chopped into a bob, easily weaved through the bright red tables crowded with diners slurping long noodles. Arthur’s large body lumbered through with the grace of an ox; slowed down by numerous apologies.

Up the spiral staircase hazy purples and harsh greys dominated the color scheme; the dragon now blowing smoke that turned into flowers. Not exactly shy about its past, though the opium had been cleared out long ago. A jazz lounge now occupied the space. “Mr. Matthews” and his associates were dispersed among the couches and high tables. No worse for wear, bruises and scrapes aside. Molly perked up, but the others failed to notice Arthur. Too captivated by the clarinetist doing a mean improvisation during a Duke Ellington number.

Arthur approached Dutch and Micah from behind; a finger pressed to his lips. Molly kept quiet. “Enjoying the show?”

While Dutch gave him a look that was not unlike that of an exasperated parent watching their child act up in public, Micah had a more satisfying reaction. Choking on his drink, the barstool scraped the floor as he rose to beat his chest. He waved off Dutch’s attempt to pat his back; eyes bulging with every cough. Shock over a dead man walking or from his inability to breathe? Arthur didn’t know and sure as shit didn’t care. Meanwhile Molly had kept her attention on the band, conveniently covering her mouth with a long drag from her cigarette.

“Easy, Bell.” Arthur grabbed his shoulder to hold him still for a few unnecessarily hard whacks on the back. “Wouldn’t want ya to drop dead on us.”

Wincing and wheezing, Micah squirmed away. Dutch’s gaze flickered briefly between them before he lowered the mask of faux gentility again. “I was beginning to wonder if I needed to send out a search party. I hope there was no trouble.”

“Nothing I couldn’t climb my way out of.”

Micah sputtered again, ignoring the annoyed stares from the stage. Dutch snapped his fingers a few times to get one of the waiters to pull up another chair. Once seated, he reached out and adjusted Arthur’s coat collar. Regret flared up as the hands lingered. He had failed to cover his tracks from a man who was a sleuth in his own right. The lounge was dark but not enough to conceal the passionate trail John had left along his neck last night. He was also in yesterday’s clothing, having swung by the bullet-ridden car before getting a room to collect his belongings. A wise decision. The loose ends were tidied up and the car was now gone.

“Did you enjoy your leisurely morning?”

Used to being put first; subordinates at his beck and call, Dutch was annoyed with him. Normally this would trouble Arthur, but thoughts of John kept the guilt at bay. The feeling of him in his arms. The conspiratorial smiles shared while scarfing down lunch. Their parting kiss—less of a goodbye and more of a come-back-soon—behind Spalding’s. How he couldn’t wait to return to that department store to see what gifts John had picked out for Abigail and Jack.

Arthur wasn’t sorry in the slightest. “After all the smoke and bluster that went down last night? Yeah, I did.”

Sadly, Micah didn’t choke to death. Eyes watery and face red, he cleared his throat and asked, “Where’d you get off to, Morgan?”

“Bed. I don’t much like crawling around the city late at night like some sorta rat.”

Micah gave him a heated stare before muttering, “Need some air.” He made a beeline for the hallway that led to the balcony.

Dutch watched him go. “I must say, I’m very pleased with how things unfolded yesterday.”

That comment left Arthur so dumbstruck he almost neglected to thank the waiter who had brought him a glass of water. “Really?”

“The police are baffled. Bronte’s men are running around like headless chickens. And we’re going to slip on out like thieves in the night. It couldn’t have gone better.” Dutch clamped a firm hand on his wrist. “All thanks to you, Arthur. Javier told me you set off the fireworks. You got my men out just like you promised.” His voice cracked as his words became heavy with sorrow. “Reminds me of the old days.”

Last night couldn’t be farther from the old days. Back then they had been a team united under the lost cause of breaking the chains of civilization. Everything was on the level. Violence minimal. Last night? Dutch had withheld the truth, destroyed half of the Saint Denis Harbor, harmed or killed who knows how many innocents, and nearly gotten all his men slaughtered. An absolute disaster. But Dutch was smiling—the real McCoy too—stormy eyes full of joy and the skin around them crinkled. Despite his anger, he was so, so proud. It made Arthur shamefully happy. Oh, how he hated the way he still basked in the warmth of Dutch’s approval like a flower starved of sun. It was the same damn thing with Hosea. Would he ever learn?

Yet this pride also worked like a scalpel carving its way across his chest, leaving Arthur raw and exposed. It foretold of more chaos to come. Dutch had long been reckless, but never to this extent. God, he needed to talk to Hosea. He would know what to do.

“I’m surprised Mr. Bell isn’t back yet.” Dutch removed his hand as he rose, tossing some cash on the table and beckoning Molly with a flick of his head. His loyal subjects were immediately on their feet. “Could you tell him to meet me at the hotel when he returns?”

“Sure, Dutch,” Arthur said with a slow smile that probably made him look like a crocodile.

“Will Mr. Morgan be returning with us?” Molly asked hopefully.

“No, dear.” Dutch eyed Arthur. “I’m sure he has his own arrangements.”

Confused as she was, Molly knew not to pry. Arthur remained still and silent until the coast was clear. The saxophonist was in the midst of a somber finale. No complaints, but not quite what he needed. A ten-dollar bill and a request for something loud earned him a wink from the beautiful songstress. The tempo swelled into an upbeat tune as he ventured down the lonely hallway. It got people out of their seats and onto the floor, dancing to a song sung in Haitian Creole. Micah came through the balcony doors. Arthur was on him before he could run.

“Now, now take it easy, Morgan!”

“You pathetic sack of shit.” Micah tried to slip past but Arthur grabbed his jacket and threw him against the wall. “You really think I’d just let you walk away from this?”

Ever the actor, Micah pulled off apologetic well. “It was all just a big misunderstanding! I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“Really?” Arthur growled, just loud enough to be heard over the music; its rhythmic patterns like poetry in the air. “‘Cause the way I see it you tried to kill me.”

There was no talking his way out of this one so Micah resorted to violence. Trying to worm his arms free while swinging his head forward to smack into his. Arthur simply shifted back. “You ain’t going nowhere, boy.”

“You can’t do shit, Cowpoke! You got no proof and Dutch knows you had it out for me since we met.”

His fingers dug into Micah’s biceps. “Shut. Your. Mouth.”

“Who’s he gonna believe?” he sneered, not remotely cowed. “The man who has been nothing but loyal or the son who broke his heart?”

Maybe they should settle this over a round of poker. His tells were obvious. Micah was trying to rile him up as a distraction. A not-so-sneaky hand drifted into his leather coat. Arthur got there first, grasping the stiletto knife in the hidden pocket. He threw it aside and it clattered against the floor, sliding far out of reach.

“Why waste time tellin’ him when I can just kill you myself?”

Micah laughed until Arthur backhanded him. His snickering broke upon hitting the floor, choosing to snarl instead. Arthur sidestepped the lunge at his legs. If Micah had more than two brain cells bouncing around, he’d scream for help. Beating drums and high notes could only cover up so much. Maybe his pride was getting in the way. Maybe the fear of retaliation. Arthur _would_ kick him in the teeth if he tried. Down but not out, Micah got to his knees. Ready for round two.

“We all know you’ve gone soft. Ever since your wife and brat were murdered.” Arthur must have reacted because Micah smirked while rubbing his jaw. Why douse the flames when you can throw fuel at it? His voice grew more confident. “Yeah, I know all about that. You’re weak, Morgan. That’s why Dutch made you the lookout. That’s why you gave up the case, huh? You don’t have what it takes to do what needs to be done. You’re too yellow.”

“You willin’ to bet your life on that?”

His hands surged forward, wrapping around Micah’s neck, yanking him up and off the floor. The pulse beneath his fingers accelerated as Arthur robbed him of air. It would be so easy to snap his neck. He had done it before. Plenty. When Dutch wanted a personal touch to his executions but wanted to his hands clean. When he had been ambushed in a dugout and was forced to choke the life out of some poor bastard who was there for the same reason Arthur was: his country told him it was the right thing to do. Micah tugged frantically at his grip, feet scrambling and kicking back at the wall.

“What needs to be done is for someone to put you in the ground. Long time overdue.”

Micah’s eyes were bloodshot and bulged again; mouth hanging agape around incomplete gasps for air. When he tried to claw at his face, Arthur squeezed harder. The hands grew limp and fell away. Frustration pent up for far too long, his own were shaking from the release.

“Dutch ain’t the one you gotta worry ‘bout,” Arthur hissed, ready to call Micah’s bluff. He didn’t know a thing. “You should be askin’ yourself what I did to the man who took them away from me.”

Arthur let Micah fall to the ground in a graceless heap. He lay there, nails scraping the wooden floor as he gulped down air faster than his ravenous lungs could handle, coughing and cursing with equal contempt. The shock hadn’t left his face. Why didn’t you kill me? He ignored him, bending down to pick up the discarded knife.

“Mine now.”

“You son of a bitch—” Micah choked out as a new song started up that had the walls throbbing.

“You owe me.” Arthur wagged a finger at him, stalking forward. “The only reason I let you live is ‘cause you’re right. I ain’t the man I was.” When Micah tried to scramble away, Arthur grabbed a fistful of his hair. “But as you can see, I can very easily slip back into my old self.”

A lot was left unsaid. Better left for a courtroom. Truth was as long as proof and motive eluded him, Micah was safe. Arthur didn’t want to let hate prevail over justice. Still, he needed to put the fear of God in him. Not for his sake, but for those he cared about.

“Quit wastin’ my time, Morgan,” he rasped, words spat out like acid on his tongue. “What do you want from me?”

“Ain’t quite sure yet,” Arthur mused, “but I will collect. You can be sure of that. Same as you can be sure that if you ever come after me or anyone I care about—” He made the blade come out and eyed it with disgust, remembering how Micah had nearly stabbed Sean with it. “—I’ll make sure the morgue won’t be able to piece you back together. We clear?”

The raw terror on Micah’s face was answer enough.

\--

“I swear, Arthur.” Karen stabbed her fork into her scrambled eggs with such vigor she had to push the dark sunglasses back up her nose to hide her black eye. “If she comes after me one more time, I’m gonna shoot her straight between the eyes! Grimshaw’s a rabid dog as it is. An absolute bi—”

“Karen!” Mary-Beth scolded, her voice little more than a hiss. “We’re in public!”

“We’re at Pearson’s,” Karen countered, wagging her fork with the egg still on it. “Not the Louvre. Besides ain’t no one playin’ any attention to us anyhow.”

“Hey now, this is a respectable joint,” Pearson countered, his wide back facing them as he scrubbed at a wet dish. “I expect all my customers to maintain a certain level of decorum.”

Arthur snorted into his coffee while Tilly raised a thin brow. “You even know what the Louvre is?”

Karen chewed on her food and the question. “It’s a palace, ain’t it? In Paris?”

“It’s an art museum.” Thanks for that one, Albert.

“Well, lookie here! Ain’t you smart.” She took another bite and smiled at him. “When did ya go and get all refined on us, Arthur?”

“If I’m refined, high society’s standards sure have declined.”

That got his three favorite women giggling and Arthur was glad for it. Clashing schedules made get-togethers tricky so when he returned from Saint Denis and found an invitation from Mary-Beth taped to his door, he jumped at the chance to join their mid-week breakfast plans.

Pearson’s Diner was your average greasy spoon. It had that whole futuristic look, all smooth and sleek with metallic surfaces that light and reflections bounced off of. A no frills sort of place. Simon Pearson cooked your meal right there; all the appliances were behind the u-shaped counter that forced customers to sit elbow-to-elbow on barstools. Sure, there were fancier joints with better food, but Pearson had a habit of spoiling his regulars. They always came back and tipped wildly too. At times it felt like they were stealing from the man.

“You know my offer still stands, Miss Jones.” Simon threw the checkered dish cloth over his shoulder as he turned around. He was a navy vet who liked to share his war stories but respected that Arthur was the opposite. Now heavy-set, rapidly losing his stringy brown hair, and semi-worried he’d never find a wife, Simon had a habit of speaking like his glory days were behind him.

“Mine too,” Arthur added, lifting his eyes from the newspaper he was half-heartedly reading. The explosion in Saint Denis was still front page news.

Karen shook her head, golden curls bouncing freely. “Pearson, this place is so narrow I’d have to crawl over people to take their orders when it’s rush hour.”

“That’d probably be great for business,” Tilly mumbled. Karen smacked her arm playfully.

“Get somewhere bigger and we’ll talk. As for you, Arthur, what are you gonna do with two secretaries?”

“Dunno but I’ll find something.”

“You and Tilly would just chit-chat all day and nothing would get done,” Mary-Beth teased before biting into a fresh blueberry muffin that had magically appeared in front of her.

“Hey, I’m a professional. I could handle working alongside a friend. Not sure about Karen though.” Tilly swatted away Karen’s elbow, then shook her hand when Pearson went to refill her glass of orange juice. “Why did she hit you anyways? You show up drunk again?”

“Nah, she didn’t like me givin’ lip to the customers. A bunch of rotten regulars came in and I wanted to steer clear. This Bell fellow is a nasty piece of work. He came in all bruised up and mouthing off about some queer detective—” Both Arthur and Tilly stiffened in their seats. “Angry johns always take their frustrations out on us. I told him off when he came over and ol’ Grimshaw didn’t like that.”

“I could set up some tables outside,” Pearson mused while thumbing his suspenders. “I’d need a waitress to handle that and—oh, excuse me.”

“Not necessary!” Karen called out as he went to attend to another customer. “You all need to quit worrying. I’m _fine_. Things are looking up!” She raised her chin. “Got myself a man and a good one too.”

While Mary-Beth and Tilly got all excited, Arthur wondered what exactly Micah knew and how, until he realized the latter had an obvious answer: Dutch. No names had been uttered though. Probably had been sworn to secrecy. Still, he didn’t like it. There was no way to know if Micah knew about John.

“He’s real sweet and makes me laugh,” Karen continued, “He don’t care what I do for a living or that I went to the big house for robbing that bank—and he’s a cop no less!”

His concerns were halted for a moment as Arthur recalled Sean going on about a buxom blonde he was enamored with. His back straightened as a bolt of joy shot up his spine. “He an Irishman?”

“How’d you—oh you friends with Sean? That fool blabbed about me, huh? I oughta kick his ass next time I see him.”

Oh hell, Arthur was grinning like an idiot. Suddenly all those folks in his past who tried (and failed) to set him up with their friends made sense. There was a unique happiness in two people he cared about coming together. “Go easy on him. He’s a loudmouth to be sure but he’s crazy ‘bout you.”

“I’m real happy for you, Karen.” Mary-Beth had that dreamy touch to her voice; romance forever her favorite subject. “Maybe we can go on a double-date!”

“You still with Kieran?”

“Yes.” Her whimsical expression faded. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Thought you wanted a man,” Karen grinned. “He looks like a baby.”

“No, he—What about you, Arthur?” Mary-Beth said quickly, trying to change the subject. “Tilly says you got your eye on someone.”

The newspaper made an agitated snap as Arthur opened it fully to hide his blushing face. Mary-Beth and Karen pushed it down, lit up and ready to start asking questions six ways from Sunday.

“If Miss Jackson knows what’s good for her employment status,” Arthur grumbled, “she’ll keep quiet.”

“It’s a client?” Mary-Beth practically squealed. “How romantic!”

“If by romantic you mean unprofessional, then sure.”

Arthur cast a weary glance Tilly’s way. Curious she hadn’t tossed out a pithy retort. Turned out her attention was directed out the window to the silver-haired gentleman savoring a cigarette. Hat tipped low, in a casual suit with an unnecessary cane hanging off his arm, and leaning against a run-of-the-mill green Cadillac, no one paid Hosea any mind. You couldn’t tell the sedan was bulletproof, nor that the owner was the most dangerous man in the city. Out of town until yesterday, Arthur had called and said he’d swing by after work. Guess Hosea had other ideas.

He hastily folded the newspaper and tossed enough cash to cover all their meals on the counter. The three women erupted into protest. “Consider it an apology for havin’ to leave early,” Arthur said, hands raised. “It was great seeing you ladies again.”

Karen and Mary-Beth wished Arthur goodbye warmly, but Tilly’s response was a frigid, “See you at the office.” He winced, half wondering if she’d call the cops if he didn’t come back by a certain time. He patted her wrist before leaving, regretting he couldn’t explain everything just yet.

“You losin’ your patience as you age, old man?”

“Something like that.” Hosea’s laughter was marred by a sudden hacking cough as he opened the back door.

“Alright there, Hosea?”

He threw away his cigarette. “Get in the car, Arthur.”

Arthur slipped into the backseat with all the enthusiasm of a witness facing a brutal cross-examination. It had been a long time since Hosea had this car in rotation. Despite his career choice, attempts on his life were infrequent thanks to the bridges he had built and the pockets he had padded. The interior was a soft brown and a bit boxy, but there was plenty of room for two men to sit comfortably. The biggest surprise was Lenny in the driver’s seat who gave him a cheeky salute as he entered.

“This is partially your fault.” Hosea told Arthur, shutting the door behind him. “Mr. Summers is under the impression I’m going to get shot in the head.”

“That’s only half of it.” Lenny started up the engine. “All that heat in the papers? Just don’t think it’s wise to be behind the wheel, is all. The windshield ain’t bulletproof.”

The other reason became apparent when Hosea pulled a flask out of a hidden compartment in the back of the passenger’s seat. Lenny and Arthur shared a concerned look in the rear-view mirror as Hosea took a long pull, sighed heavily, then said, “Alright, start from the beginning.”

Arthur told him everything. Well, everything except John. Hosea remained pensive throughout, listening more than drinking, fortunately. The bizarre meeting between Micah and the four masked men. How a ploy to make progress on Miss McCourt’s case led to chaos in Saint Denis. His and Micah’s narrow escapes from death at the hands of the other. That was when Hosea interrupted.

“Should’ve went through with it,” Hosea said, face serious. “You know I’d make any charge against you disappear.”

“If I killed Dutch’s prized lapdog, he’d never speak to me again and it’d kill any chance I had at solving the case—so don’t you go and put a hit on him.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll respect your wishes.” Elbow on the window ledge, Hosea rested his forehead in his hand. “But I won’t pretend to be happy about them.” He took another sip, then passed the flask when Lenny reached over his shoulder for it. Instead of drinking, he closed and tossed it to his feet. Arthur and Lenny both chuckled at the way Hosea pursed his lips.

“I hope when the pair of you are old and gray, some young jackass gives you both a hard time.”

Lenny mimicked Hosea’s voice as he made a right. “Kids these days!”

“Ain’t got no respect,” Arthur added.

Hosea rested his head again, not having to reply when they started laughing because his face said it all: I’m too old and tired for this horseshit. There was a fondness though; a little twinkle in his eye.

The drive to Arthur’s workplace fell into a deep silence. As it began to stretch on, his hands fidgeted in his lap. Used to being sassed and interrogated more thoroughly, he asked in a low voice, “You mad?”

“No, I’m not mad. You did what you had to do.” There was a long pause. “Now I’m going to do the same.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I have to stop this wildfire before it spreads. I’ve arranged a meeting with both O’Driscoll and Bronte up in Valentine. My hope is to clear the air and see if I can stop them from—” He felt the blood drain from his face. “—Now Arthur, I can’t make any promises.”

Despite the deceit and manipulation, all the old wounds and heartache, how he was still trying to control Arthur and all the harm he caused, he didn’t want Dutch to suffer, let alone die. But he couldn’t see how Hosea could possibly steer those two cutthroats away from revenge. They were like Dutch, always hungry for blood and money. Hell, they only agreed to the peace deal Hosea brokered because they knew it’d be better for their wallets.

Goddamn it, Dutch.

“Let me come.”

“No.”

“You let me come last time.”

“Don’t you have enough on your plate as it is?” Hosea snapped as the car stopped for a red light. “I’ll take care of it. Last time I need a big, scary thug—” Arthur gestured at himself with both hands. “—to discourage violence. This is just going to be a simple conversation.”

“No conversation with those two is simple and you know it. Who’s to say they won’t pull some shit? Ain’t no way O’Driscoll is gonna be agreeable especially after his failed ambush on you. You gotta go into this with your eyes wide open.”

Arthur could hear himself talking but couldn’t believe it was him saying it. When he died, they wouldn’t need to hire a gravedigger. He would’ve already dug it himself.

The light turned green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of respect for writers who can juggle large casts with finesse and I hope I did alright with many characters who popped up throughout this chapter. Still aiming to include the whole Van der Linde gang!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for your patience and support of this story. Wishing you all a Happy New Year! <3
> 
> Note: Given that Hosea is semi-based off of Al Capone in this fic, I had to give him the man's [armored car.](https://www.hemmings.com/blog/2012/07/31/al-capone-cadillac-sells-for-341000-at-rm-st-johns/)


	14. The Big Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine stirs up old memories. Hosea meets with Colm O'Driscoll and Angelo Bronte to smooth over the rising tensions in the bootlegging industry. Someone decides to crash the meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to get the dialogue right is why this chapter took so long. That and playing around with different ways backstory can be dabbled in within a narrative. Please know, I haven't lost sight of the Heidi McCourt mystery, it's just taking a bit of a backseat in this chapter. Hope you'll enjoy it!

\-- December 1914 --

The news from Europe wasn’t good. In the papers they had watched the rhetoric reverse as the pictures grew grotesque. “Over by Christmas” now a cruel joke. Narrow ditches were slowly snaking their way across the Western Front as both sides dug in. It was unfathomable that scores of men were living and fighting and dying in the mud like vermin. Not even Dutch nor Hosea could help Arthur make sense of it other than reminding him it was best not to dwell. The war was countless miles away. A whole wide ocean in between them and the bloodshed that couldn’t possibly seep its away over here.

Snow had blanketed the frozen plains. White stretched out from their roaring campfire, rolling on and on until it met the gray horizon that promised of more to come. Little civilization in sight. They had fled Valentine two days ago after a robbery gone wrong. Bessie was knitting a new pair of mitts, quick to hide them under the shawl on her lap each time the unsuspecting recipient jerked awake beside her. All five were exhausted from a snowball fight—which Arthur handily won. While Hosea nodded off yet again, Dutch and Annabelle were curled up together and conversing in whispers and heated glances.

“Arthur dear, what are you drawing over there?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nothing?” Bessie’s caramel ringlets flecked with snowflakes swayed as she tucked away her completed handiwork. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

With the other three preoccupied, Arthur took a deep breath and turned his leather journal around. It was a drawing of the two couples as they were now, in love and basking in the firelight. His family.

“Not even half done and already it’s beautiful.”

Arthur flushed at this and immediately resumed sketching. What a louse he was. These four had filled many of the cracks in his heart born from years of neglect and sorrow. Yet here he was, envy prickling under his skin with every stroke, struggling to ignore how deeply he longed for someone to call his own. Mary wouldn’t have him though and it was hard to imagine anyone ever would.

She brushed snow off his gambler’s hat. The only good thing his late father ever gave him. A tiny smile tugged at his lips. Bessie was a salt of the earth woman, hardy and practical with a gentleness that belied great strength. Hosea adored her so, regularly promising to give her everything though Bessie asked for nothing. Meanwhile Annabelle, the black sheep of an old money Bostonian legacy, had everything but threw it away along with good breeding and social status in favor of living life on her own terms. Dark features sharp and eyes alive with the barely contained wildfire that crackled within, Dutch could not only withstand those flames but embraced the burn. He often joked Hosea was his better half, but Annabelle was like a missing part that made him whole.

Arthur wondered which man would propose first.

Dutch kissed Annabelle softly. Her legs shifted; toes probably curling in her boots. When their lips parted, his hand remained on her face. “What’d you get me?”

“Oh, you cad.” Annabelle pushed him away, keeping him at arm’s length when he made kissy sounds while trying to pull her back in. “How many times are you going to ask? I’ve known children with more patience than you.”

He leaned back on his hands, smile playful. “I don’t like surprises.”

Annabelle’s nose tilted upward. “Well, that’s just tough ‘cause I do.” Her pursed lips repressed a grin until Hosea’s head slumped against Dutch’s shoulder.

“Don’t you start giggling.” This was the wrong thing to say because Annabelle had to slap a hand over her mouth. “The old man needs his rest.”

“I heard that.”

He wrapped an arm around Hosea, chuckling until it petered out into a sigh. “Go back to sleep.”

“Alright there?” Hosea yawned. Dutch grimaced, possibly annoyed his partner-in-crime could read him without so much as a glance. “We’re gonna be fine.” He spoke with full confidence, patting Dutch’s leg. “The leads will pick up in the spring. They always do. We have more than enough to get us through the winter.”

“I know, it’s just…” Dutch trailed off, staring solemnly at the fire.

“Have faith,” he teased. “Though even if you don’t, I have more than enough in you.”

“You’re right.” Dutch rested his head against Hosea’s. “You always know how to put me back on course, huh?”

“Someone has to captain this ship.”

“I resent that,” Dutch murmured, smiling growing as he heard Hosea snicker.

\-- May 1931 --

A sleepy town was a double-edged sword. As a former local lawman, Arthur could attest to that. No matter how little trouble there was to get mixed up in, fools always managed to stir up some of their own. Arthur, Charles, and Hosea stood behind Kieran in varying states of amusement, watching him aim his gun at a rusted weathervane atop an abandoned stable. Somehow the auction yard still reeked of shit despite being riddled with cracks and long barren of livestock. By last June, the plains of America were already browned and wilted. April hadn’t brought enough showers to suggest this year would be any different. Guess even nature wasn’t on Valentine’s side.

Charles wore an easy smile. “There’s no way you can hit that.”

“‘Course I can!” Kieran protested, emboldened by drink. In all fairness, he wasn’t the first would-be gunslinger to have been struck by this idea. The rooster’s chest bore a bullet hole. “Ain’t that far!”

“Distance isn’t the problem, Mr. Duffy.” Unlike his three companions, Hosea was painfully sober. Probably wanted a clear mind for the meeting tomorrow.

“Aw, let him try!” Arthur wrapped an arm around Hosea’s shoulders; all smiles as he dangled from the precipice of sobriety. “I wanna see if he can.”

“This is my fault. Don’t know what I was thinking leaving a child in charge for an hour.” Stern look aside, Hosea’s voice was light with the promise of laughter. He slinked his arm around Arthur’s waist. “Trust you to find the one speakeasy in town.”

“Now that ain’t fair. How was I supposed to know he was a lightweight?”

Hosea poked his side, causing Arthur to squirm with an involuntary giggle. “Anyone’s a lightweight when trying to keep up with a man your size.”

“There’s two of ‘em.” Kieran nodded up at the roof with his free hand. “I can’t miss!”

“How many barns have two weathervanes?” Charles asked rhetorically.

There was a beat of silence. “Well, then, all I gotta do is hit the right one.”

He shot and missed spectacularly, shattering the remaining window instead. While Hosea patted Kieran’s shoulder sympathetically, Arthur swore, dug out a ten, and slapped it into Charles’s waiting hand. He was about to whip out his gun and show that rooster a thing or two when Arthur found himself being dragged away. Charles had linked and locked their arms. Hosea was doing the same thing with Kieran, leading them up the street bathed pale moonlight and lined with pockets of abandoned buildings and dilapidated fences. Arthur didn’t put up a fuss. He was acting a fool and mighty glad John wasn’t here to see him. Then again, maybe he’d be just as ridiculous.

“Where are you now?” John had asked earlier that day when Arthur called him upon disembarking. The train up north hadn’t nearly been as fun as the one back from Saint Denis. No risky closet rendezvouses this time. If Arthur closed his eyes, he could still feel John. Pressed against him. Hot mouth along his neck. Greedy hand down his pants.

“Valentine.”

“My sympathies.”

Arthur had snorted upon imagining John’s disgruntled expression. “Take it you won’t be tracking me down this time?”

He sighed as if some great travesty had occurred. “As much as I like annoying you, I’m stuck here overseeing the repairs at Beecher’s.”

“You ain’t missing much.” His fingers played absentmindedly with the phone cord. “Hosea’s just meeting with two blowhards. I’ll be back tomorrow evenin’.”

“You’re doing work for Hosea?” John inhaled sharply. “You be careful, alright?”

Worry had wedged its way into his husky voice. Arthur thought to tease him, but the concern left his heart fluttering. He rested his head against the cool glass of the phone booth and murmured, “Of course.”

Valentine was a forgotten town. One that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to stay in the nineteenth century or make the leap into the present. Not enough money to ease the landing, he supposed. That’s what drove the young away; sent them running with open arms to the big cities. Dwindling opportunities even before the crash. New Hanover was still farm country. You either had to saddle up or hit the trail like Arthur had. To think this had been a refuge during the war and the immediate years after, back when they walked these streets donning tin stars on their chests. After the fallout with Dutch, Arthur and the newly-wed Mr. and Mrs. Matthews wanted a slower pace and Valentine more than provided.

“I don’t reckon anything has changed since I was here last,” Kieran commented. “Kinda feels like a place frozen in time, y’know?”

“Reminiscin’ on your days as an O’Driscoll, boy?”

Charles gave him a look. Arthur rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“I do got one fond memory,” Kieran started chuckling before he finished his joke. “The day I ran away.”

The fact that Smithfield’s—Arthur paused to eye the “Historic” claim in its sign dubiously—was about to close didn’t stop Hosea from marching in, whipping out both his charm and wallet. The three took a seat by the window. Wooden interior. Creaking floorboards. Decorative animal skulls. Wallpaper thoroughly faded after thirty years. Even back when Deputy Sheriff Morgan had dined at the saloon-turned-restaurant, he saw it for what it was: a relic preserved only to tap into the rise in Old West tourism during the previous decade.

Kieran drummed his fingers along the table. “Mr. Matthews said you and him lived here once?”

Arthur grunted but then realized that was a pathetic response even by his low standards. “We did. We were trying to turn our lives around.” While he had worn the badge easily, wanting to do good and be good for once in his life, Hosea was no lawman. It took Arthur a bit longer to realize that truth for himself. Square pegs, round hole. “Should’ve figured it wouldn’t last.”

“You don’t think people can change?” Kieran asked, frowning.

“Nah. Way I figure—” Arthur broke off. Who was he to openly ruminate on the nature of man when he was about as bright as a dying light bulb? “—I figure we just become more of ourselves as the years roll on.”

While Kieran bit his lip, seemingly mulling this over, Charles eyed him in a way that told Arthur he soundly disagreed but didn’t have enough alcohol in him to be argumentative. If Charles looked close enough though, he’d spot the compliment tucked between the words. At first Arthur had thought of him as just another crook. A competent one at that. Charles knew the ins and outs of racketeering, had a healthy dose of antagonism towards the law, and didn’t flinch at the harsh realities of the job. It was no surprise he had skyrocketed through the ranks of the Matthews Outfit. Then he saw Charles run into a burning building to save lives. Saw him help beggars in the street. Saw how he kept violence as a last resort. That was the real him.

Determined to steer the conversation in a better direction, Arthur asked, “This is gonna seem like a strange question, but—”

“Place is ours, boys! Drink up!”

A cheerful Hosea came over with coffee and lots of it. After Kieran poured himself two cups worth, he offered the fresh pot to Arthur. He shook his head but then Hosea took it, poured a healthy amount, and set the mug firmly in front of him. Arthur blew at the hot liquid a few times before drinking, glaring at an indifferent Hosea the whole while.

“You were saying?” Charles prompted.

“Oh, uh, any of you ever seen anyone from the rival gangs wearing drama masks?” Charles, Hosea, and Kieran shared puzzled looks. “Y’know, the comedy and tragedy faces?”

“Sounds like a good way to get caught,” Kieran replied.

“Exactly, it’s too, well, theatrical,” Charles said. “Anyone in the business knows it’s better to avoid attracting attention.”

Arthur and Hosea both opened their mouths—likely to make the same “tell that to Dutch” joke—but Charles got there first, “I’ve never seen his men dressed outlandishly. Whoever you saw? Had to be amateurs.”

“You sound like a detective,” Arthur smirked, taking another sip while considering his answer.

Laughing at this, Charles turned towards Kieran who was already working his way through his second mug. “We can handle things tomorrow if you still don’t feel up to it.”

Truthfully, Arthur didn’t know much about Kieran Duffy save for his love of horses, that Mary-Beth had taken a real shine to him, and that he kind of liked him too. Young but not green, Kieran had a kind heart and somehow hadn’t been crushed by his rotten lot in life. Nothing spooked him though like the O’Driscolls. Arthur had hoped a few drinks would settle his nerves.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout Colm. He ain’t even gonna see you.”

“Wait, that’s why you’ve been drinking?” Hosea frowned. “Kieran, you should’ve told me you were uncomfortable. I wouldn’t have brought you along had I known.”

“It’s alright. Honestly! I wanna be here. I can’t be scared of them O’Driscolls forever.” Kieran finished gulping down his coffee. “Means a lot that you trust me enough to take Lenny’s place.”

“Where is Lenny at?” Arthur asked.

“Shipped him off to the capital,” Hosea replied. “Howard Law is having its annual open house.”

Arthur smiled wistfully. “That boy is gonna make somethin’ of himself.”

“If the O’Driscolls act up, well, I figure I owe ‘em a bit of payback.”

Hosea wagged a finger at Kieran. “Now, now. There’s a reason I didn’t ask Mrs. Adler to join us.”

“Wish you did. That’s a woman who gets results.”

“Not the kind I’m after. How am I supposed to negotiate with a corpse, Arthur?”

\--

The tension in the room was thick enough to smother a man and Arthur knew exactly whose face he would hold down the pillow over. The years had not been kind to Colm O’Driscoll. Withered and pale like snakeskin, though the rail-thin businessman hadn’t shed it all. There was something still decidedly serpent-like about him. The flick of his tongue as he licked his lips. The way his eyes darted as he took in the fine china, abstract paintings, and the sunshine streaming through the windows of the café cleared out just for them. There was a cool breeze outside but it didn’t warrant the oversized fur coat draped around his shoulders. Trying to scream big money. To Arthur? Well, he just looked like a big idiot.

“Hosea,” Colm greeted with false pleasantry. “How’s business, old man?”

“More or less the same.”

Although able to keep personal feelings out of business negotiations, he had a long and winding memory. When Colm exacted revenge for the loss of his brother, Dutch wasn’t the only one who had lost Annabelle. Hosea never bothered to put on a fake smile or muster up an ounce of charm when it came to him.

“That’s nice.” He clicked his tongue, eyeing the young hostess who took his hat and coat from him. “Me? Aside from the horseshit between us, the Bureau of Prohibition has been buzzin’ around again.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye out then.”

Charles shifted his weight; arms crossed and face serious. A mirror of Arthur who stood on Hosea’s right. Initially he didn’t want a pair of bodyguards, but they had convinced him otherwise. Good thing too. Colm had his own. A pair of O’Driscoll boys who were trying to stare the both of them down, as if Arthur and Charles couldn’t simply snap them over their knees.

Colm’s lip hitched. “I see your hiring practices have declined.”

Kieran was lurking on the balcony of the Saints Hotel next door, rifle aimed at Colm’s head through the window. Arthur wouldn’t mind if his, or if any of the other snipers’ fingers slipped right about now. Outside of a blink, Charles didn’t grant Colm any sort of reaction.

“If Mr. Smith is a step down, my business is moving in the right direction.”

“Hm. I see you’re trying to bring your boy back into the fold as well.” Ah, time for a new tactic to ruffle feathers. “Finally ready to follow in daddy’s footsteps?”

He wasn’t supposed to talk let alone give lip, but Arthur lacked the restraint of the other two. “I can’t quite figure out whether you like to hear the sound of your own voice—” He leaned forward. “—or if you’re just plain stupid.”

A late arrival saved him from any possible reprimand. Two well-dressed men, their guns bulging in their sleek suit jackets, opened the restaurant doors. Angelo Bronte strolled in like some sort of pin-striped king. A balding crown on a head held high, his eyes narrowed at being surrounded by peasants. Although Arthur had tangled with Bronte’s men, usually with a pair of handcuffs, he had only met Angelo once before when Hosea fashioned the three-way peace treaty in this very room. Then, as with today, Arthur could smell arrogance from where he was standing. Or maybe it was just his overwhelming cologne.

“Mr. O’Driscoll, Mr. Matthews,” Angelo reached to shake his business rivals’ hands. Colm wiped his palm on his pants the moment he turned to face Hosea. “So nice to see you both again.”

“Signor Bronte,” Hosea replied hospitably. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”

“Ah, it’s no trouble. It’s nice to get out of Saint Denis for a bit while there’s still ash in the air but—” He gestured casually outside. “—this? Not exactly what I had in mind.”

“What, you gettin’ soft?” Colm eyed Angelo like he was something you’d scrape out of the bottom of a trashcan. “Oughta take a step back if you can’t handle a bit of heat.”

“Mr. O’Driscoll.” Every syllable of his surname was dragged out. “Given you look like a man with one foot already out the door and in the grave, may I ask for your advice on places to retire to?” His two goons sniggered stupidly. Colm’s lips drew back into a snarl. “Tell me, has Ireland gotten its shit together or is it still a disaster?”

Arthur’s eyes drifted skyward. Hosea must have dabbled in black magic to get these two morons to come to an agreement last time.

“Fellers!” Hosea clapped his hands together before beckoning a waitress holding a bottle of champagne over. “Let’s get some drinks in us before we—”

A gruff, familiar voice bellowed. “Drop your weapons!”

Commotion erupted outside. No gunshots, just yelling. Civilians were reduced to blurs as they dashed by the windows. The all-female waitstaff dropped the façade and drew their concealed weapons. Half hurried off throughout the building to protect those inside. The rest stayed and flipped the tables for cover. Colt in hand, Arthur grabbed Hosea, pulled him down, and held him close. Pressed to the wall near the doors, Charles had his out too. Ready to take out whoever entered. Colm and Angelo were in similar protective positions, though the former had pulled his guns out and aimed at the door as well. Was it the cops? Couldn’t be. The sheriff’s office had one hand in Colm’s pocket, the other in Hosea’s.

“Hold your fire!” Kieran shouted at the others.

“That’s it. Nice and easy, kid,” the voice from before continued.

Laying on the ground, both Arthur and Hosea watched Kieran through the window as he slowly lowered his rifle and raised his hands. That voice. Wait. Was that Bill Williamson?

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Dutch greeted as he threw open the doors. “Didn’t miss anything, did I?”

He strode in with the same pomp as a showman strutting across a stage. A captivated audience watched Dutch place his coat and hat on the available rack, not bothered by the ten guns set on his heart. Hands wavered and faces grew grim as Hosea rose. Perhaps they were disappointed by the lack of a reaction. You had to look close to see beyond the blank stare. There was a hardening of his gaze like water turning to ice. With no execution order given, one-by-one the guns were holstered. Every curse word ran through Arthur’s head and almost came out when Dutch winked at him. Why? Why did he always have to pour fuel all over the fire?

“What the hell are you doing here?” Colm spat out, wincing as if not shooting Dutch physically pained him.

“Oh, I wasn’t invited?” Dutch tilted his head. “And here I was thinking my invitation got lost in the mail.”

Angelo stormed towards Hosea. “Is this your idea of a joke, Matthews? First, you bring me to this pathetic town that reeks of shit. Then you bring in this, this washed up, wannabe gangster—”

“Listen, Sergio.”

“Angelo.”

“Right, right.” Dutch waved his hand as if brushing off the correction. “Hosea had no idea I was coming. You see, whenever people talk behind my back I always find out. So I thought I’d save us all a bit of time, drop by, and see what’s what.”

“What’s what, Mr. Van der Linde.” Bronte got in his face instead. “Is that you owe _me_ thousands of dollars for destroying _my_ liquor and _my_ harbor.”

“Really?” Dutch turned his back to him and poured himself as small glass of wine. “I heard through the grapevine Mr. Matthews was behind that.”

“Hosea has been trying to keep the peace for years. He ain’t dumb enough to do something like that or attack my men randomly.” Colm pointed at Dutch. “But you are.”

Dutch raised his glass to him; voice raw with delight. “What are you gonna do about it, old friend?”

There was a prolonged pause. One that made Arthur start envisioning whipping out his gun and laying waste to everyone who tried to harm Dutch. As furious as he was, Arthur would be damned before he let anything happen to him.

“Nothing,” Colm shrugged. “We’ve read this story before, Hosea. Old Dutch comes along and makes a whole heap of trouble for you. We step in, stand by your side, and he runs off with his tail between his legs.”

“Not this time though,” Bronte continued. “Why waste men and resources when we could just let you two kill each other?”

The lying, the deceit, the bloodshed. Organized crime was foul and rotten to its core. Colm and Angelo despised one another but not enough to not go behind Hosea’s back. This had been their plan all along. To bow out and loom like vultures along the sidelines, eager to pick over the battlefield once the fighting ceased. This was exactly why he had sidestepped Dutch and Hosea’s footprints and tried to stamp out his own course despite knowing their paths were forever intertwined. The promise of violence to come left Arthur with a sense of dread.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Hosea said dryly. “I appreciate being stabbed in the front rather than the back.”

“Come now.” Colm gave Hosea’s arms a quick squeeze. “We’re doing you a favor. Our neutrality will ensure nothing gets in the way of you crushing this idiot.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bronte sneered. “If this buffoon comes anywhere near my city again, I’ll make sure the authorities won’t be able to find a body.”

A sour-faced Dutch emptied his wine glass while Hosea spoke in an eerily calm voice, “I think we’re done here.”

No elaboration was needed. His order applied to everyone. The three mob bosses filed out with less boldness than which they arrived. This was a hell of a gamble. One that would cost them greatly if Hosea came out on top and with minimal losses. Dutch could be heard calling off his men while Hosea slipped off to speak to his employees strewn throughout the café.

When Arthur sighed heavily and slouched against the wall, Charles joined him. “I don’t understand what his plan is. War never leads to anything but more misery and won’t result in lasting profits—if that’s what Dutch is after.”

“I doubt there’s much of a plan. If there is, it’s about as solid as a door riddled with bullet holes.”

It was then Arthur realized he couldn’t hear Hosea’s voice anymore. After a hasty goodbye to Charles, Arthur ran outside. Bill, Javier, and Micah were loitering by the general store. Kieran was still up on the balcony, who pointed him north. He ran up the road, past the two black limousines taking Colm and Angelo back to whatever hole they crawled out of. The shootout that never was had emptied the streets and made Valentine a temporary ghost town. Pretty fitting. For Arthur, the place was as haunted as Saint Denis. He ran past the post office, his old barbershop, the restaurant where he met Eliza. There was nothing to keep the ghosts at bay as he searched for Hosea. If Arthur wasn’t careful, he might get caught up in the past and let it blow him around like the dirt swirling above the parched roads.

Don’t think about the house the five of them shared.

Don’t think about those nights out on the veranda where Hosea and Bessie took turns reading bedtime stories to Isaac.

A familiar flash of silver hair slowed his pace and brought him back to the now. Up ahead, Hosea had an unlit cigarette in his mouth, struggling to strike a match. Arthur was about to call for him when Dutch emerged from in between two buildings and blocked his ex-partner’s path. Arthur crouched behind a parked car. Dutch lit the cigarette for Hosea.

Smoke wisped away from his lips. “I hope you’re goddamn happy.”

“I am. That went remarkably well.” Dutch pocketed his golden lighter. “There’s a certain thrill that comes along with thwarting your plans.”

Hosea resumed walking. “I don’t know whether to be mildly or greatly concerned that I still occupy your thoughts so much after all this time.”

“Why be concerned when you could be flattered?”

“And you didn’t thwart anything. I wanted to prevent a four-way war and keep them from teaming up to destroy you.”

“Why Hosea. I’m touched you still care.”

“I don’t. If they absorbed your territory it’d tip the scales of power in their direction.” Hosea replied curtly, flicking ash away. “You used to be smarter. What happened to you?”

“Age makes fools of us all.”

Hosea laughed genuinely and Dutch beamed like he always did whenever he got a smile out of him. For a moment they were rendered speechless when the weight of the walls built up between them came tumbling down on their heads. But there was too much to say, too much water under the bridge. Up to their noses in it, they hastily rebuilt their barricades and fired at will.

“This is going to end badly, Dutch. For you and countless others, though I know you don’t care about the latter.” He blew out a stream of smoke and coughed. “Tell me, how do you see this ending? You on top and all wrongs against you righted? The bootlegging industry open and flooded with questionably distilled liquor. The return of gang wars and constant violence with police. Innocent civilians caught in the crossfire…”

“I’d admonish you for your thoroughly un-american dismissal of the free market, but the more I think about it, you’d probably feel right at home in Washington. Perhaps I am the odd one out.”

“Actually, I was going ask you if you were planning to run for office since hypocrisy is a shared quality among politicians. Exactly how free is the market where you have your protection rackets?”

His smile was unnerving. “While your eyes remain closed, I have mine on the big picture.”

“You were always good at that. Neglecting the little details.”

“Such as?”

“There’s no such thing as neutrality. This war you want so bad will help them, not us.” Hosea took another long drag. “I’m not going to fight you, Dutch.”

“Why? ‘Cause there’s no money in it?” he snapped.

Hosea laughed around his persistent cough. “You’re not worth my time. I’ve wasted enough of it on you as is.” Dutch grabbed Hosea’s arm and forced him to turn around. He was met with a face full of smoke. “What do you want, Dutch? You want me dead? If you’d hold your damn horses for once, you’ll get your wish sooner or later.”

“I thought you knew me better than that.” Dutch threw his arm aside, glowering like the thought of Hosea’s death actually upset him.

“I thought I knew you once.” Decades worth of hurt weighed down Hosea’s voice. “I was wrong.”

Dutch frowned, but then suddenly snatched the cigarette out of his lips, leaning back with a wide grin when Hosea reached for and failed to reobtain it. It was playful and cheeky like a certain other dark-haired man Arthur knew. As much as he missed John, he was more thankful than ever he was not here. John was going to worry himself silly when he learned of the impending war Arthur was in the middle of. Hosea can say he wasn’t going to fight but Dutch wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted.

His joy faded however, glancing between the cigarette and Hosea’s annoyed face. Dutch’s face slowly contorted into something close to rage. “How long?” he spat out, casting the cigarette aside. “Have you told Arthur?”

“Don’t talk to me about Arthur.”

The speed of this retort and the venom within cut through the confusion that had swelled up in Arthur’s head at this strange turn in the conversation. He didn’t know what they were talking about but knew it was time to intervene.

Dutch smirked as Arthur came out of the alley he had been eavesdropping in. “I love him just as much as you do.”

Hosea laughed richly, but it was the sort of laugh that left hairs and heckles raised. “You don’t love anyone but yourself. You know it. I know it. And Arthur sure as hell knows it. You stay the hell away from him.”

Horror flickered across his face when Arthur appeared by his side. He tried to pull Hosea away. “Don’t. Let’s go.”

Grinning from ear-to-ear, Dutch leaned back against a car. “Or what?”

Hosea brushed Arthur off and pointed a finger at Dutch. “I took everything from you once. I can and will do it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I go back and forth on whether or not to include flashback scenes, as opposed to what I've been doing so far with Heidi McCourt and Arthur's backstory, trying to breathe life back into the past through memories and conversation.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> References:  
\- Valentine Inspiration: Small-Town Nebraska c. 1920s [[x](http://www.familyoldphotos.com/photo/nebraska/31525/street-scene-gering-nebraska-1920s)] [[x](http://www.familyoldphotos.com/photo/nebraska/31576/street-scene-west-point-nebraska-1920s)] [[x](http://www.familyoldphotos.com/photo/nebraska/31402/fifth-street-minden-nebraska-1920s)]  
\- Drought: [Farming in the 1930s](https://livinghistoryfarm.org/farminginthe30s/water_01.html)


	15. The Public Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert and Sean's own snooping sheds new light on the case. Arthur takes John out on a date to the movies. It almost goes off without a hitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Public Enemy](https://www.filmsite.org/publ.html) was released on April 23, 1931 and helped to launch the gangster film genre and James Cagney's career. Its depiction of sexuality and violence helped hasten the infamous Hays Code. It's a great pre-code film and I am going to spoil the ending unfortunately, so heads up. :P
> 
> 1930s Terminology  
\- Blind Pig: Another term for a speakeasy.  
\- Forty-Niner: A male gold digger.  
\- Clubhouse: Police station house.

Courthouses were always stifling. Not the someone-crack-a-goddamn-window sort of way, though that could happen if you were sweating out your sins all over the witness stand. No, it was the kind that robbed him of air. Arthur couldn’t take a deep breath if he tried. Maybe the undercurrent of his own guilt had eroded the foundation of the enclosing walls, causing them to bob and drift and give off the illusion they were closing in. It didn’t help today’s trial was being placed in a handbasket by a shrewd defense lawyer. “Hell” already written on the shipping tag, no doubt. Two lovers tried to make the woman’s husband look like he died from a road accident and not by smashing his head open. They were going to get away with it. Arthur knew it. The grieving sister who had hired him knew it too.

“Oi! English!” Sean called out. “There you are, ya sneaky bastard. We’ve been looking all over!”

Smoking up a storm during the brief recess, Arthur waved his hand through the clouded air as his two equally excited friends exited the courthouse. “I’ll have to hide better next time.”

Albert silenced Sean’s ready retort with a sharp look. “You alright?”

He grunted, then peeled himself off the roman column he had been leaning against. “Why ain’t you typing up today’s front page news?”

“I already did.” Albert’s head dipped, likely to conceal his delight over how the trial had descended into madness beneath the brim of his press hat. Chaos sells papers. “My fingers are near ready to fall off so I figured I’d come bother you and give them a rest.”

“You never bother me,” Arthur mumbled around his cigarette, knocking the hat up a bit. “Sean on the other hand...”

“Oh, shove off. You love me.”

Arthur gestured at the large brown envelope under Albert’s arm. “Is that what you mentioned on the phone? What you’ve been dying to show me?”

Yes, but not here. His friends hurried down the many stone steps, murmuring excitedly among themselves, as they led him into the gardens lush with the colors of dawn. Daylilies and primroses were opened wide to soak up as much sun before it became a curse and the summer heat wilted their delicate petals. It was one of those mornings where it should be illegal to stay indoors. He sat opposite of them at a lonely picnic table far from curious eyes and ears and smiled in spite of himself. A troubling day in court. Whatever mischief these two cooked up in his absence. At least these distractions kept him from dwelling on all that had transpired in Valentine. Well, mostly.

“Try not to blow a fuse,” Sean teased when Albert pulled out a series of photographs from the envelope.

Cigarette now drooping, Arthur spread the pictures across the table. Different angles of a lavish office with a neatly organized desk and a fireplace. A group of men with low-tilted hats loitering outside his apartment. Various shots of Dutch and Micah staring at Beecher’s Hope from across the street and speaking with one another. One captured John’s back as he exited his Cadillac. Abigail and Jack were with him. That made Arthur choke on an inhale.

“Did they go near them?” he sputtered, tossing his cigarette aside before trying to clear his throat. “Did they—”

“No,” Albert said quickly. “In fact, Mr. Van der Linde and Mr. Bell left shortly afterwards.”

He held Arthur’s gaze for a moment longer than necessary. He knew how it looked. Heard the question that went unasked. Why are you interfering with a man who has a family? Normally embarrassment would have crept up around the edges and left Arthur flushed, but he was too worried to be ashamed. What awfulness did those two have in store for the young family?

Focus, Arthur told himself. Look for the little things. The smug look on Dutch’s face. Something was burning in Milton’s fireplace. The men were brazen enough to visit his home during the day. Abigail was laughing at something John said. Micah had a fresh black eye. Wait. What? Arthur squinted at the blackened, swollen skin. Despite their confrontation Arthur was fairly certain he couldn’t claim responsibility. So consumed with locating Hosea following the meeting from hell, Arthur hadn’t gotten a good look at Micah. Who did it and when was a mystery—though if Arthur found out he might just shake their hand.

“Ain’t too sure who these fuckers are.” Sean pointed at the group of men. “Couldn’t get a clean look at their mugs but they didn’t stay too long neither.”

“Funny they showed up when I wasn’t there,” Arthur grumbled, then gestured towards the office photos. “What am I lookin’ at here?”

Sean raised his chin. “Milton’s office.”

Ah, there was the aforementioned fuse. Albert wore a similar look of defiance. In lieu of a response, Arthur stared the oh-so-proud fools down and laced his fingers together to resist the urge to reach forward and shake some sense into them. He rested his forearms along the wooden table and leaned forward. “Is there a runnin’ bet on who’s gonna get shot first? How many times do I—”

“Our money would be on you if that were the case,” Albert said curtly. “Are we _really_ going to play the game of who is leading the more reckless life? Tell me, how many laws have you broken since we last spoke?”

Sean began counting on his fingers. “Breaking and entering, assault, property damage in the thousands…”

“Now hold on—”

“Dozens of traffic violations,” Albert continued. “God knows how many counts of homicide—”

“Alright! Alright!”

Arthur loved his friends. Truly. It baffled him they had stuck around for so long as despite knowing who he was and what he was capable of. That wasn’t something he took for granted. But sometimes they drove him so far up the wall he was left dangling from the ceiling. Arthur rubbed his hands over his face, wishing he still had that cigarette. If he started up with listing all the reasons why their snooping was a stupid idea, they would lob familiar platitudes about safety and experience at him like a one-sided tennis match.

“Following up leads is a part of my job.” There was Albert’s go-to opening serve. “As for Sean—”

“When it comes to routing out corrupt cops, you need a man on the inside whether ya like it or not.”

That was a new one. Worse yet, it was a truth he couldn’t counter. Sean knew this and grinned cheekily in victory. Part of him wanted to point out how they’d stick their noses where they shouldn’t even if they didn’t have their occupations to use as an excuse. He thought better of it. Arthur couldn’t really be mad at them for being better men than him. Albert and Sean shared a deep-rooted want to right wrongs that seeped into every part of their lives. Like him, they would see this through to the end.

“Look,” Sean began in a low voice, “I’ve been keepin’ an eye on Milton and Ross since the raid on Beecher’s. Spittin’ in Matthews’s eye like that? Makes no sense at all. Nobody down at the clubhouse want him gone. He’s been lining pockets for years. Way I figure, you’d only do that if you were sure as shite gonna take him down. But then you wouldn’t half ass stormin’ a blind pig if that were the case. You’d go full hog.”

“Can’t be too confident. Milton offered Mr. Marston and myself a deal to leave us alone if we give him Hosea.”

Details of the case cycled through his mind, trying to connect what he knew with what lay in front of him. Arthur had to be missing something—something obvious. The pathetic cover-up. How Heidi knew both Hosea and Dutch. The raid. The planted evidence. The impending war. How Milton and Dutch had a common enemy.

“What if they’re working together to get rid of Hosea?” Arthur questioned aloud.

“Wouldn’t put it past ‘em,” Sean replied with a hearty chuckle. “Bastards have even less scruples than I do!”

Albert held up a photo of the men outside Arthur’s apartment. “These were taken yesterday. They couldn’t be Dutch’s men. After all, I suspect he knew you were in Valentine.”

“They’re probably cops,” Arthur replied. “Dutch wouldn’t have any reason to tell Milton about the meeting.”

“The plastic!” Sean blurted out as he grabbed Albert’s shoulder and shook it in a fit of excitement. Arthur blinked in open confusion, especially when recognition swept over Albert’s face. Sean tapped the photos of the fireplace. “Milton was burning plastic. Stunk to high hell and it was all warped, but I could tell it used to be white.” Sean slapped his palms down on the table, blue eyes blazing with delight. “I’ll bet you boys anything it was one of those masks!”

“We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”

“We ain’t making that big of a leap,” Arthur countered, causing Sean to grin at Albert obnoxiously. “It’d be in their best interest to conceal their identities when dealin’ with that snake.”

“It _would_ explain the sloppy cover-up,” Albert added slowly after a few moments of contemplation. The tips of his fingers were lost in his beard while he scratched his jaw. “Why be careful when you have gangsters your disposal to do away with people who ask too many questions?”

Sean’s premature joy came to a startling halt. “What if they try to kill him? If I had some nosy fucker like Arthur sniffing around, I’d knock him off.”

“Dutch don’t want me dead,” Arthur explained. Sean’s frown didn’t ease. “Milton and Ross can’t do nothing to me unless they wanna destroy their partnership with him.”

This also meant Milton and Ross likely knew of his investigation into Heidi’s murder. Thanks Dutch. As a threat to their plans, scaring off both Arthur and John would be a priority. Maybe that was real reason for the planted evidence and the raid. Sean had a point though. He’d have to be extra careful, lest an accident death befall him. John even more so. Sure, he supposedly had blackmail material on account of their own payouts from Hosea but still, he lacked Arthur’s safety net.

“Allowing a gang war to potentially happen seems like a risky way to achieve their goal.” Albert frowned. “What if Mr. Matthews wins?”

“They’re placing multiple bets,” Arthur suggested. “They don’t care how Hosea falls so long as they can nab him.”

“That’d definitely get ‘em those Bureau jobs. They’d be heroes.” Sean glanced at his wristwatch, swore, then hurriedly scooped all the photographs back into the envelope. “Knowing those two, Dutch best watch himself. I doubt Milton and Ross wanna be in his debt.”

“This is a goddamn nightmare,” Arthur murmured, crossing his arms and shaking his head slowly.

“Look at it this way. You don’t have to do everything alone. We just have to find proof our theories are sound and solve the case before things get too out of hand.”

“Jesus Christ, Mason. That’s no way to cheer up the man! Watch and learn, son.” Sean handed Albert the envelope and flicked his chin towards Arthur. “How’s your boyo?”

“My what?” Arthur asked incredulously.

“Your feller! Your main squeeze! Your—”

“He’s fine,” Arthur grumbled. Under no circumstances did he want to talk about John with Sean Loudmouth MacGuire.

“Ah! So the mystery man’s finally more than just a client, eh?”

Shit. Why must people poke into his personal life? Arthur couldn’t think of a more boring subject. He had hoped his curt tone and disgruntled expression would discourage further inquiry. However between Sean’s slash of a smile, like a crowbar ready to pry him open, and the way Albert’s brow was hitched, Arthur knew he wasn’t going to be let off easy. Rather than play into their hands, Arthur left the picnic table. They went after him like a pair of dogs hungry for scraps.

“Don’t get mad, Arthur!” Albert pleaded, voice riddled with devilish glee. “We’re just curious. Did you two go on a date yet?”

“You two knock knickers yet?”

“Sean! Don’t ask him that!”

“Hey, I wanna make sure this feller is treatin’ my boy Arthur right.”

Where was a stray bullet when you need one? Face burning wildly, Arthur walked faster towards the courthouse; no longer a prison but a refuge. Flocks of tourists slowed him, scattered over the steps as they marveled up at the imposing building. Its grand rotunda capped by a white dome loomed high above all the neighboring roofs. Arthur weaved through them but Albert and Sean were faster and popped up on either side of him with matching shit-eating grins.

“We spent some time together in Saint Denis, alright?” Arthur snapped as they reached the top, hoping that tossing out the bare minimum would quell their curiosity temporarily. “It was…nice.”

“Nearly getting killed together isn’t a date.”

“I dunno, Mason. Maybe gun violence is foreplay for these two.”

Albert and Sean erupted into laughter and Arthur was left pinching the bridge of his nose, ready to start praying for a heart attack. Or the gift of self-combustion. He wasn’t picky. “Oughta shove your fool asses down these stairs.

“Aw, don’t get so burned up, English!” Sean slapped his back. “You oughta reel him in though. He’s rich, ain’t he? What if there are other Forty-Niners swimmin’ around in his waters? Don’t want another shark to—”

“If you don’t shut that mouth of yours,” Arthur growled, prowling forward with a finger in Sean’s face, backing him up into the off-white limestone wall. His interest in John had nothing to do with his wealth. “You’re gonna be missin’ a hell of a lot more teeth by the end of the day, boy.”

“Would you two settle down?” Albert scolded like an exasperated schoolteacher.

“You’re usually more fun than a toothache, Arthur,” Sean sniggered, never knowing when to call it quits. “What the hell happened in Valentine aside from Dutch showin’ up?”

Arthur lowered his hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

\--

The line had spilled out of the Imperial Theatre onto the sidewalk and was snaked around the building. Kernels popped loudly inside the oversized glass box; the popcorn vendor was making a killing off moviegoers gobbling up the snack ahead of entering. Arthur had seen countless movies here; had watched them go from silent to sound. Yet when he caught sight of John, all those other Friday nights faded away. Between the new pinstriped suit, his crooked smile, and how the warm glow of the bulbs that spelt out ‘Imperial’ bathed his scarred skin in gold, there was no part of John that wasn’t pleasant to look at. Black shoe propped up against the red bricks, he stood not too far south of the protruding white sign bearing _The Public Enemy_ in bold letters. Heart not set on any film in particular, Arthur let him pick. If this many people wanted to see the new James Cagney feature, it had to be halfway decent.

“Hey.”

“Whatchu all dolled up for?”

“Got a hot date. I’m hoping to knock their socks off—” John quit leaning against the wall. “—along with some other garments.”

Despite his eye-roll, this was exactly why Arthur had called John up. Foul mood still with him by the day’s end, Arthur called up John before he could talk himself out of it. He didn’t want to think about the case or the trial. (Probation after pleading guilty to manslaughter? What a joke). Arthur definitely didn’t want to think about Hosea. Heart heavy with all the things weighing him down, he needed a distraction. Drowning himself in work and copious amounts of alcohol, his usual standbys, weren’t going to cut it this time.

“I’m sure your date wouldn’t want you to go to all that trouble.”

“I hope they’d know that it weren’t trouble at all.” His sly grin eased into something earnest. “Even if it was, they’re worth it.”

He blushed hard and John’s smile only grew. Arthur felt like a young man again. Lost somewhere between nervous and hopeful, the butterflies in his stomach refused to play along nicely with the dinner he had eaten earlier. The heat of his gaze left Arthur feeling rather like a prey animal locked in the eyes of a wolf. It was almost enough to drown out the concerns that had been rattling around in his head like spare change in a tin can, loud and persistent, ever since he spoke with Albert and Sean. If John wasn’t careful those around them were liable to guess what was really going on between the two men. In spite of all that, Arthur was still surprised John had even agreed to show up.

“You busy?” Arthur had asked when John answered the phone.

“No. Beecher’s is still closed for repairs. Why?”

“I was just wonderin’ if you want to uh, see a movie or something.”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut at how awkward he sounded. Christ alive, was he sixteen or thirty-six? A grown man should not be this incompetent at speaking to people. Then again, he had always traversed affairs of the heart with the finesse of an elephant on a tightrope, forever expecting to fall flat on his face even back when he had pursued Mary and Eliza. Somehow the fact both said yes to him time and again did nothing for his confidence. There was something wholly wrong with a man who got more anxious over a date than a gunfight.

“Arthur Morgan, are you asking me out on a date?”

Goddamn him. He could _hear_ John smiling. The bastard. He had half a mind to hang up, only to notice his left hand was wholly tangled up in the phone cord. When had he accomplished that?

“No.”

“Two people seeing movie together on a Friday night? Sounds an awful lot like a date to me.”

Once their tickets were in hand, John all but rushed Arthur into the theater. Rows upon rows of raked seats stretched down towards the huge screen where uniformed ushers were drawing back the oversized red velvet curtains. Mindless chatter filled the almost full auditorium; the rapid stream of people flowing in was trickling down as eight o’clock neared. John had his sights set on the back row and they eased their way past those already seated before settling near the middle. The multitude of lights began to turn off one-by-one as a foreword from Warner Bros. popped up. It claimed this film was an attempt to present criminals realistically rather than glorify them.

“Christ,” John grunted, “if this is another Horatio Alger morality tale where good triumphs over evil, I’m outta here.” Arthur slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter. “What’s so funny?”

“Just surprised you know who that is. Never struck me as a man who reads much.”

John’s mouth fell open and he elbowed Arthur as the movie opened with shots of New York City in 1909. He kept his hand up, laughing through his nose as streetcars and horse-drawn carriages shared the crowded streets on screen. Just when he had managed to settle down, John placed a hand on his knee. Arthur didn’t mind. That was fine.

Then it started to drift upwards.

“Marston,” Arthur grumbled, more of a warning than an admonishment. So that’s why he wanted to sit all the way back here. He had half expected John to pull the whole yawn-and-stretch-ploy to wrap an arm around him. Not this.

Undaunted, the hand moved tantalizingly slow up his inner thigh. Testing the waters. Lips curled into a pleased smirk, the fool kept staring straight ahead. Arthur knocked the hand aside. If someone caught them, they would get thrown out—at best. Persistent as a spoiled brat however, John didn’t quit. This time he finger-walked his way along the meat of his thigh back towards his destination.

Arthur took John’s hand into his and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, grateful the whole room had gone dark. He murmured against them, “Gonna break them one-by-one if you try that again.”

“Spoilsport,” John scowled, trying to snatch his hand back. Arthur’s grip tightened around his fingers. Despite the low light of the screen, the bruises along his knuckles were obvious.

“John, what—” An irate store manager chased two impoverished boys across the screen. Wanting to see if they’d get away, Arthur let go and soon became engrossed in the rise and fall of Tom Powers, a rags-to-riches gangster.

It ended up being better than expected. Between the on-screen violence and sexuality, Arthur wasn’t too sure how it slipped past the censors. Not that he was complaining. As the film neared its end, the theater was deathly silent until Mike opened the front door. Tom’s bullet-ridden body, wrapped in ropes and blankets like a makeshift mummy, stood there swaying. Arthur swore under his breath while others around him, including John, gasped and looked away. The wide-eyed corpse fell face-first to the floor and his horrified brother stalked away slowly as the phonograph needle became stuck.

Chatter exploded even before the lights turned on, much of it in favor of the film despite the brutal ending. His muscles rejoiced upon standing and stretching his arms. John remained seated however, arms firmly crossed as a deep-set frown marred his handsome face.

“Aww, too dark for you?” Arthur snickered. “I’ll take ya to a romance next time, princess.”

John blinked as if disoriented for a moment, then shot up. “Call me that again and there won’t be a next time.”

“Sounds like something a princess would say.”

Warm and clear with the moon hanging low enough to highlight the skyline, it was too fine a night to part ways so soon. Hell, even if an unseasonal blizzard was battering the city Arthur would be hard pressed to leave John’s side. They walked aimlessly through the streets; the semi-respectable distance between them disappearing as they drifted away from the downtown crowds. As with the theater, somehow it all felt new even though Arthur was no stranger to Blackwater after hours. How many times had he chased crooks through winding dark alleys, examined murders that kept his eyes open long after crawling into bed, or searched for meaning at the bottom of yet another bottle of whiskey? The difference was John, of course. His eyes sparked in the same way all cities seem to after hours—with trouble—and for once Arthur wholeheartedly welcomed it.

“You leading me back to my office?” Arthur asked as the buildings started to become awfully familiar.

“Figured we could enjoy a nightcap there.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?” Arthur side-eyed John. He didn’t fool him in the slightest.

“We could go somewhere else.” John at least had the decency to look abashed, biting his lip and looking away. “Though I’m not keen on giving my competitors any more money seeing as they’re probably making a fortune off my misfortune.”

Arthur closed his eyes. The raid instantly reminded him of the troubling photos that he had been trying hard to forget. Selfish of him, really. He didn’t want to dampen the mood but it wasn’t right to keep the latest developments a secret.

“Listen. I should’ve told you before. Some friends of mine did some snoopin’ while I was in Valentine. They snapped pictures of Dutch and Micah watching you and your family at Beecher’s.”

There was a pregnant pause. “Guess I need to start carryin’ then.”

“What kind of answer is that?” Arthur stopped walking. “You ever even shoot before?”

“Once or twice.” John made finger guns and pointed them Arthur. “How hard can it be?”

“You desperate to wind up as a morgue job, Marston?” The words came out harsher than intended, earning looks from several passersby. Arthur didn’t want to fight. Not tonight. Not when they had been having such a good time. But he couldn’t help himself. John stood no chance whatsoever against professional killers. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Who’s joking?” John placed a hand on his hip as it cocked in defiance. He didn’t care who saw them teetering on the edge of an argument. “I ain’t scared. If you think I’m gonna tolerate them coming after me or my family, you don’t know me very well, Morgan.”

There it was again. Scrappy and full of bravado, John reminded him of some of the street kids Arthur tangled with in his youth. Of himself. Always angling for a fight even when it couldn’t possibly be won. Funny the things that last well into adulthood.

“There’s more,” Arthur added, trying to keep his voice low as they started walking again. “Milton and Ross are working together with Dutch.”

“With Dutch?” His face scrunched up with disbelief. “You sure? He hates cops, don’t he?”

“No, I ain’t sure. But they have the same goals, just different methods. Get Hosea and keep us from stopping them.” John’s jaw worked as he digested this, staring off into the distance. “I don’t have hard evidence yet so don’t you anything stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Like exposing how they take bribes.”

“Why not?” John pouted, telling Arthur that was _exactly_ what he was thinking of doing. “Let’s ruin their careers now. Get them out of the picture. Figure I’m owed some payback after what they did. Especially if they’re involved in Heidi’s murder.”

“You know damn well it won’t be that easy so you best get off that line of thought. The last thing you need is a bigger target on your back.” John opened his mouth but Arthur cut him off. “Revenge isn’t a game to play when you have a family to consider.”

John rolled his eyes. “You sound like Abigail.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to your woman—”

“She ain’t my woman, damn it. How many times do I gotta tell you?”

“Outside of Miss Roberts, what else am I supposed to call the woman you’ve made a home with?”

That stopped John in his tracks and Arthur immediately wanted to slap himself. He sounded bitter and ridiculous, like some sort of a jealous lover. He wasn’t. At least he didn’t think so. He had felt the sting of envy before and this didn’t have that same burn.

Rather than go on the defensive, his face softened. “We met up in Montana. I was doing odd jobs. Shit jobs, really. Abigail was a, well, _you know_. She was easy to talk to though and she didn’t care I’m…the way that I am. We got to being good friends and one night we had few too many and—shit.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I gotta figure out how to tell this story better when eventually Jack asks one day.”

“Tell him to ask his mother.”

That actually got a laugh out of John but the grin soon faltered. “I weren’t sure if the baby was mine and the life I was leading? Ain’t no kind of life for a child. Couldn’t afford to take care of either of them. I panicked but—” His bruised hand moved to rub his jaw, fingers brushing over his scars. “—things was rough. Real rough. We were both unhappy and wanted something better. For ourselves and for the baby.”

“So you two moved across the country and opened a speakeasy?” Arthur finished for him, wondering how they got the money to do such a thing but didn’t ask, lest he overstep.

“Weren’t easy. We picked Blackwater ‘cause we had a friend out here. Uncle. He helped us settle in and now…now we can’t get rid of him.” There wasn’t an drop of malice in his voice and Arthur strongly suspected John was secretly fond of the lazy old man.

Not sure what to say, Arthur blurted out, “How’d you hurt your hand?”

“Huh? Oh, this?” John took a gander at the bruises. “I was uh, helping with the repairs and a plank of wood fell on it.”

He continued to let the story sink in for another moment, mulling over it like he couldn’t figure out if he liked the taste or not. “Why don’t you do the right thing and marry her?”

“That ain’t the right thing. Abigail deserves better than me. Jack deserves better than me. Hell, you deserve better than me.” He shook his head. “Tying herself to me, it’d be the same as strapping an anchor to her leg and diving into deep water.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

John blushed. “It means I want her to find someone who’ll keep her happy and safe and that ain’t me.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

That disregard for himself—Arthur didn’t like it one bit. All too familiar with those sorts of thoughts and the reckless behavior that came with it. He wanted John to know that he mattered but couldn’t word it properly. So instead he asked, “What do _you_ want?”

John cocked his head to the side, pulling out that crooked grin once again. “Thought it was obvious by now.”

Arthur tilted his head so he wouldn’t knock their hats off and kissed John under the lonely streetlight across from his office. It was slow and sweet. Drawn out like they had all the time in the world, like they didn’t have to worry about someone turning the corner and catching them in the act. He groaned softly, a low rumble in his throat when John’s hands snaked their way up his chest.

“Figure it out yet?” John smirked, clutching onto his lapels to hold him close. Just as Arthur leaned in to bring their lips back together, he gasped, “There’s someone in your office!”

Over his shoulder, the silhouette of a man passed by just beneath the emblazoned name and title on his window. John tried to stop him, but Arthur slipped out of his hold and immediately stalked towards the entrance. He heard John curse violently before running after him—his footsteps echoed painfully loud down the near empty street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Your support of this story means the world to me. Until next time. <3


	16. Walls Tumble Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get heated when Arthur and John catch the intruders who broke into the former's office and don't cool off until much later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads Up: I am a card-carrying member of the 'Arthur and John Are Switches' Club so y'all are gonna get both in this story.
> 
> Yes, this is a content warning. Happy Valentine's Day! ;)

They must have broken in through a window. The front door was still locked. Once inside, Arthur and John ran past the darkened bookstore towards the stairs at the end of the narrow hallway. Two steps at a time wasn’t fast enough. The intruders had heard them; panicked footsteps scrambled above. Shadows vanished in the fogged glass of the door. Gun ready and key out, Arthur pushed John behind him and barged in. Nothing. Except an open window and the curtains swaying by Tilly’s desk. John shoved past and got there first, thrusting half his body out the window.

“Gotcha, you son of a bitch!” John snarled.

There was a loud crash and crunch of wood. Its echo ricocheted loudly up the brick alleyway walls. John yelped and nearly fell out but Arthur’s arms seized him in time, wrapping snugly around his torso. Teeth clenched together and face flushed with fury, Andrew Milton glared up at John who had him by the scruff of his jacket. He jerked his body, legs dangling over the shattered crates as he tried to break free. The color of his face and the insults he spat worsened as they pulled him up.

Click!

A hammer had been pulled back. The laughter on his tongue turned bitter and the three struggling men froze. A somewhat disheveled Edgar Ross was on the ground. Gun locked on John’s skull.

“Let him go, Mr. Marston.”

“Like hell I will!”

“That’s where you’ll wind up if you don’t do what he says,” Milton sneered, twisting his neck to sneer up at his captor.

Arthur could hardly breathe. “John, it ain’t worth it.”

“You want them to get away?”

“You lookin’ to add another hole to your head? Let him go!”

Only when his muscles eased and body sagged in defeat did Arthur send a thank you up to the heavens. Who knows? Maybe someone _was_ listening. Milton didn’t have much of a fall, landing on top of the broken crates they had stacked to break in. Still, he took care to dust himself off and adjust his coat.

Milton tilted his hat back and winked at them. “Much obliged.”

Swearing violently, John tried to go after him. Arthur seized the fool again and yanked him inside. For his efforts, he got shoved away. John stormed off, disappearing through his office door left ajar by the intruders. So much for their date. There was a familiar clink of crystal upon glass as John helped himself to the decanter of whiskey. Arthur sighed heavily and ran his hand along the window. Grooves and scrapes in the wood; the calling card of amateur criminals. They had a hell of a time using a crowbar and screwdriver to pry it open. At least Tilly’s desk and the rest of the waiting area was unharmed. In the near distance, tires screeched as a car fled into the night.

After locking all the doors again, Arthur joined John in his office. Despite the deep scowl and having curled up on the couch like an angry cat ready to swipe at everyone and anyone, he handed Arthur a peace offering: a stiff drink. All-in-all, the office wasn’t too bad. Could’ve been worse. The filing cabinet had been forced open and rifled through. His desk was more of a mess than usual; all of the drawers were thrown open with papers scattered haphazardly across the top. The only real casualty of the break-in was a broken picture frame on the floor. It held the photo of the clocktower owl. Arthur carefully picked up the few pieces of broken glass and tossed them in the trash.

“Sorry,” John mumbled, wincing as he gulped down his drink in one go. Arthur snorted. The only he was sorry for was letting those two get away.

“Don’t be. You’re a pain in the ass but I prefer you alive.”

“How are you not mad about this?” John exclaimed. “We oughta go down to the police station and—”

“Well, considering how often I partake in breaking and entering, I suppose I had this coming.” John continued his baffled stare while Arthur took a decent swig, relishing the burn while pressing his lips against his hand. “Going there won’t accomplish nothin’. Cops protect their own. You know that.”

“Did they take anything?”

“Not that I can tell. Probably wanted some case files or something to see what I know and don’t know.” Arthur’s lips curled sluggishly. “Jokes on them. I only make those when a case is through.”

John mirrored his expression, but there was an underlying deviousness. What was he up to now? He rose to shrug off his trench coat, then held out an expectant hand. Arthur eyed him wearily for a moment, then removed his own. The instant he handed it over John sunk his hand into the deep front pocket and plucked out Arthur’s journal.

Walked right into that one, huh? “Give it here.”

He made a grab for it but John threw their coats at him. Arthur grunted in surprise, tossing both onto the couch. He blocked the door and extended his arms. “I don’t know what game you’re playin’ at, Marston, but it’s gonna be a short one.”

Backing up deeper into the office with a boyish grin, John held the journal tight to his chest. “Bet they’d like to get their hands on this.”

“That they would.” It held all of the notes he had taken of the investigation so far—and then some. Arthur trapped John by his desk, arms still outstretched. “You better hope they don’t.”

John opened the journal and spun around. “You draw a picture of me or somethin’?”

The last page had an unfinished drawing of Hosea gazing wistfully up at their old house in Valentine. Arthur reached around him but John twisted and sank to the floor.

“I don’t know what I love more.” John flipped back through the pages. “Your beautiful drawings or that you sketch cute rabbits next to notes about dangerous gangsters.”

Arthur downed the rest of his whiskey and nearly choked when John suddenly stared up at him in awe. A full-page portrait drawing of him from the day they had met lay in his hands.

“You made me look good.”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, skin aflame under his fingers. “I just…draw what I see.”

He ducked his head at that before murmuring, “Wait, what’s this?” His finger traced beneath the writing below the picture. “‘John Marston might be the most irritating man I’ve ever met.’” He smacked Arthur’s leg with the journal before offering it up; face like a petulant child.

“Nothin’ you’ve done in the last couple minutes suggests otherwise, y’know.” He hurried over to conceal the journal once more inside his trench coat, grateful John hadn’t seen the embarrassing number of sketches of him from when Arthur was in the throes of infatuation. “After tonight, I’ll be writing something to that effect again. You can be sure of that.”

“Why was Hosea so sad in that drawing?”

Shit. He was hoping John hadn’t noticed. This was why he hated when people looked at his journal. It always led to questions that were better left unasked. Arthur didn’t want to think about Hosea. Really, he’d rather not think about much of anything. Too damn late for this sort of nonsense. He swallowed thickly, suppressing the pang of sorrow rising within and rounded the desk to grab the phone.

“It’s late. I’ll call you a cab.” John pressed the switch hook when Arthur started to dial. “I don’t want to talk about it, Marston.”

“Then we won’t.” There was a silent pleading in his eyes; an unusual softness in that raspy voice. “C’mon. Don’t send me away. Don’t run off neither.”

You’d think he had been dipped in cement. Arthur couldn’t move as John came around slowly, grin suggesting he could taste victory. He took the phone and hung up. Didn’t push his luck though, choosing to lean against the desk rather than touch him. Side-by-side they stared out the large window. Lights were going out. Fewer cars drove by. Arthur could imagine the scores of children tucked into their beds; husbands and wives together in their own. There was a loneliness in watching a city fall asleep. Not tonight though.

“I’m guessing they don’t think you’re through with the case,” John said softly, shifting his weight uneasily.

“Sorta complicates my hunch they’re working with Dutch.”

“Unless he thinks you’re not through with it either.”

Fair point. “Guess I’ll have to speed up that social call. Try to see where his head is at.” This was said lightheartedly, but John’s gaze and expression fell and landed hard on the floor. Part of Arthur wanted to grasp his arms firmly and promise him that everything would be alright. But even unspoken, those words sounded hollow.

“I don’t need or want you worrying ‘bout me.”

“I’ll worry all I goddamn want.” His stare was harsh enough to stop oncoming traffic. “Especially when you’re dealin’ with him.”

Couldn’t say he was surprised when John grabbed his face and brought their lips together. Arthur met him with the same intensity, knotting his fists into his jacket as John seated himself on the desk. Chasing after the lingering taste of whiskey, Arthur licked into his mouth. John welcomed this with a groan and his own tongue, spreading his lips and legs; two gaps Arthur was more than happy to fill. Warm and wet—borderline sloppy if he was being honest—the drag of their lips and teeth spoke of exhilaration not yet worn off. To think if that trigger had been pulled, he could have lost this, could have lost John. Arthur held him hard against his chest; their hearts beating in that same fast, nervous rhythm. His legs locked around Arthur like he expected him to flee. He was good at that, wasn’t he? Running from everything and everyone that made him feel seen.

John saw him. That’s for sure. Had seen right through him from the start. Never shied away though. The ugliest parts never left him sour. Arthur could not understand why. Why John always wanted more. Why John wanted to tear down his carefully constructed walls, built to protect others and himself. But Arthur let him in the same way he let those deft fingers slide down to peel away his suit jacket. Without question. His own sunk into those thighs, delighting in the way John’s cock twitched. Yet his hands remained far north of his waistline, moving to roam the plains of Arthur’s back. John was restraining himself—as best he could, the man did have his tongue in his mouth and was rocking his erection against Arthur’s own. Rather than charge headfirst with little thought, John had his foot on the break. Waiting for a sign to go ahead.

The two rested their foreheads together as Arthur loosened John’s tie. He couldn’t help the fluttering inside when the shocked face before him split into a goofy smile. “You sure?”

“If you start yappin’, Marston, I might just reconsider.”

“Let me down,” he said giddily. Arthur stepped back. This was a mistake. John spun around and knocked everything clean off his desk with a grand sweep of his arms.

Arthur gawked at him. “The hell was that for? I have a perfectly good couch!”

“Yeah, but I’ve always wanted to do that.” John shrugged, biting his lip with faux coyness. “Been thinking about you taking me against your desk since we first met.”

“_Jesus Christ_, John.” The boldness of his words and the salacious image they conjured made the heat building in his stomach shoot south. He threw the tie aside and gave him a narrow look. “When this is done, you’re helping me clean that up.”

Grinning like a cat with a mouse under his claws, John grasped Arthur’s own tie and yanked him forward so their mouths were inches apart. “Better make this worth my while if I’m gonna be doing chores after—”

Fed up with his cheek, Arthur grabbed John through his pants, sneering as his mouthy lover gasped. “What was that? Didn’t quite catch the last bit.”

Another squeeze and John sputtered out a weak “Bastard.” The affection in his husky voice and the fact he had hardened further was impossible to miss. Arthur’s throat went dry and he let go.

Vests hastily unbuttoned. Suspenders slipped off. Shirts nearly ripped. Shoes kicked away. The speed in which John tore off their clothes was tempered only by his desire to kiss and bite and grope at the newly exposed skin. His eagerness was baffling but endearing, even when John tossed Arthur’s undershirt and there was a clatter that suggested another picture frame fatality. How could Arthur care though when John’s hot mouth was on his jaw, on his throat, on his collarbone; sucking and biting skin already feverish from his touch?

Under his hands, sharp hipbones bled into the soft curves of a narrow waist and left him at risk of uttering words that’d make the devil blush. John was beautiful in all the ways Arthur wasn’t. Lanky and sleek save for his wide shoulders; muscles strong yet wiry like a young colt. Sometimes Arthur felt like he took up too much space. Hard to blend in when you’re so damned big and broad. Grown soft in the middle too thanks to time away from life on the run and on the battlefield; both hollowed a man in more ways than one. But John’s almost bewildered face made it seem like _he_ was the lucky one. His hands hovered indecisively. Where to touch first? He settled on squeezing the muscles of his arms before running them along Arthur’s chest. His thumbs played with his nipples until John decided to latch his mouth onto one while he fumbled with Arthur’s pants. An embarrassingly loud gasp escaped Arthur and again when John grew impatient, shoving his hand in to grasp him firmly. Couldn’t just do one thing at a time, could he?

Using the desk to hold himself upright, Arthur muttered, “Ain’t gonna last if you keep doing shit like that.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” John teased, pulling away to rid him of his remaining clothes.

Again, it was too fast. He half-wondered how many repairs the tailor was going to have to make. Not wanting to ruin the mood with an admonishment nor admit he was a sentimental old fool who wanted to savor every moment, Arthur tried to slow John down without words. He lifted him back onto the desk and rubbed slow circles over the clothed bulge, causing John’s breath to hitch. Arthur then unbuttoned his pinstriped pants in a leisurely manner and tried hard not to think about the fact he was standing bare before John.

He rolled his eyes and reached forward. “C’mere, you big softie.”

Arthur pulled back. “Ain’t no softie, Marston.”

“Yeah,” John replied with a smirk, “and I’m a man of remarkable patience.”

“Well, you _do_ put up with me.”

“Like that’s a chore,” John scoffed, immediately trying to take advantage of Arthur being flustered by raising his hips to tug off his own pants.

Arthur smacked the hurried hands away and did so each time John tried to speed things up, enjoying the flare of annoyance in his dark eyes. It had become an all-out inferno by the time Arthur was unclasping his sock garters.

“Can’t always get what you want.”

John’s hand drifted down towards his length, thick and red and leaking against his stomach. He leaned back and stroked himself while his half-lidded eyes raked over Arthur. “Wanna bet?”

This was followed by a wanton moan. Didn’t matter whether it was real or put-on, it went straight to his cock and forced Arthur to breathe deeply to regain some sense of control. Don’t stare. Don’t give in. Not yet. Arthur’s fingertips trailed slowly up his legs. John’s face brightened as they skirted closer and closer to his desired destination—only to darken when they snapped up and settled on his jaw for a chaste kiss.

“Tease,” John grumbled fondly.

If he had a nasty retort lined up, John never fired. He went quiet as Arthur eyed his many, many scars. A body marred by violence. Like him. Knife marks, bullet scrapes, a gunshot wound on his left arm. The claw marks across his face spread down his right side; three etched into his thigh.

“Wolves,” John said in a hesitant voice. “Thought I was gonna die.”

His admission was as bitter as his expression. Arthur wanted to tell John this wasn’t something to be ashamed of. That the thought of him suffering and near death made his heart twist painfully. Instead he massaged the riddled skin and chuckled, “Mason guessed right then. Don’t you know city boys don’t belong in the wild?”

“Ain’t no city boy,” John replied, before raising his brows. “You talk ‘bout me with your friends?”

“Not by choice, I’ll tell you that.”

John erupted into laughter as he hopped off the desk and hurried over to his trench coat. So stupidly infectious, Arthur found himself getting flustered again. His crooked smiles and unyielding recklessness, his blunt honesty and all those filthy innuendos of his—John was infuriating and foolish and made Arthur’s heart skip every other beat. A man starved by his own doing, Arthur had sown the seeds for his downfall. He had sworn never to get close to another again. Yet here he was. Full of want. Arthur wanted this, wanted John, and very much wanted it to be good for John.

When John handed him a small tub of Vaseline, he shrugged at Arthur’s narrow stare. “Hey, I’m an optimist and I’ve seen what you’re packing. Gonna goddamn split me in—”

“Remind me to gag you the next time.”

The bastard laughed again but there was a nervous tinge to it as he rested his elbows on the desk. Arthur almost volunteered to switch with him but John shot him a heated over the shoulder look. Blushing wildly, he scooped out a large dollop, coating his fingers and length generously, trying to ignore the how his own nerves had come roaring back. You’d think he was inexperienced or something. It was ridiculous how young John made him feel, so jittery and full of adoration at the same time.

Bent over his desk and legs spread apart, chest heaving with the same desire that coursed through Arthur’s own veins, John was a sight that knocked the wind out of him. Grasping the left cheek firmly, he circled the puckered rim gently before slipping a finger inside. Impossibly tight and hot, his own cock twitched in anticipation. He waited for John to get used to the sensation before moving his finger. Opening him slowly and rubbing John’s hip when he took a second finger. Arthur would prefer to see his face but the lewd sounds John made as he curled his fingers and stroked him on the inside told him what he needed to know. Keep going. Arthur closed his eyes as he stretched him. Waiting for the rug to be tugged out from under. Waiting for some new disaster that would take John away.

Yet neither fear materialized and by the time he added a third, John was rocking back against him. “Get on with it, old man.”

“Impatient bastard.”

Laced with fondness, the words grated on Arthur’s ears. But he pushed all nagging thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand and used both hands to spread him. When he pushed into John, Arthur didn’t just lose his train of thoughts, it went right off the rails. Still tight despite the work he had done, their breaths were equally short and punched out. He tried to be gentle, pushing in and out slowly, listening to John’s guttural moans, watching how he clawed against the desk.

“More.” John’s voice was strained by frustration. “I won’t break.”

“You sure ‘bout that?” Arthur stilled just to piss him off. It worked. John scowled darkly, then used his grip on the desk to push himself back, taking in even more of his length. “Jesus! Easy, John. Easy!”

Fairly certain John was two seconds from stabbing him with the first sharp object he could get his hands on, Arthur gave in. His head hung down as he pushed forward, fingers likely bruising John’s hips as the immense heat engulfed him slowly. After what seemed like forever and no time at all, he bottomed out.

“Finally!” John sighed in a broken sort of way.

So hot and tight and all-encompassing. Being inside John was overwhelming. Did it feel so incredible because it had been far too long since he had done this or was it because Arthur was with someone he trusted? Couldn’t compare this to some desperate fumble in an alleyway or the barracks. Not in a million years. He used the desk to give him more leverage as he began to pump into John at a steady pace. John writhed and moaned, reaching back to grab Arthur’s hip to meet each of his thrusts. Arthur could hardly think straight.

“C’mon,” he growled. “Harder, damn you!”

Forever insatiable, John’s back arched as Arthur did as he was told. He wrapped his arm around John’s sweat-slicked body and the salt from the back of his neck graced Arthur’s lips. He held him flush, thrusting faster and faster, setting a brutal pace that finally got John to shut up. Or at least lose his ability to speak coherently. The moonlight stretched and spilled the shadow of his name on the window across their bodies. Arthur rested his forearms against the desk, trapping John underneath him. Choked out breaths became desperate whining; a white-knuckled grip on the far edge of the desk as Arthur drove into him.

John cried out. Arthur had seen and heard enough of men in pain to know it wasn’t one of pleasure. Halting instantly, he murmured apologies as he pulled back.

“I’ll kill you if you stop,” John panted breathlessly, rocking his hips to try to get Arthur to start up again. “It’s fine. Keep going!”

Except it was most certainly _not_ fine. He had been crushing John. A horrific bruise and broken skin across his lower abdomen and hip bones tomorrow was not what Arthur wanted John to take away from this. He held him still as he carefully pulled out, hissing as the cold air hit his cock.

“No! Goddamn you, you son of a bitch!” John snarled over his shoulder. “I’m _fine_. I’m used to this.”

That cut through Arthur like a knife, blood turning cold as John’s actions started to paint a picture of someone used to being treated with disregard. The urge to throttle every single miserable bastard who had ever roughed up John hit him hard, but Arthur suppressed a sharp retort by lowering himself towards John’s ear. “Couch. Now.”

It was a miracle John actually made it there in one piece, stumbling over his own two feet along the way. Brown leather and simple-looking, the couch wasn’t anything fancy but it’d do the job. John tossed their trench coats to the floor then grasped Arthur’s arms and sat him down, crawling into his lap to straddle him. This was much more to his liking and Arthur went in for a kiss. Instead his mouth fell ajar as John lined himself up and sank right back down on him. The two men groaned loudly as he eased himself to the hilt.

“This is better,” John panted, grinning slyly at Arthur’s open-mouthed stare as he raised himself up and down, trying to work towards a steady rhythm once more. “Now I can see your handsome face.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and grasped the narrow waist. “How many times do I gotta tell you to shut the hell up in one night?”

“A couple more, I reckon,” John snickered before kissing him so tenderly that it woke up the godforsaken butterflies in his stomach. “Put your hands on my ass.”

“You got no manners, boy.” But he did.

John was still ravenous despite being in control. Carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair, squeezing his biceps, kissing him sloppily while rolling his hips. Maybe Arthur wasn’t the only one who was overwhelmed. No longer worried about hurting him, pleasure washed over. He tilted his head back and made sounds he knew would embarrass him upon reflection.

“That’s it,” John purred as Arthur thrust up to meet his downward motions.

The praise went straight to the pulsing below his belly, burning hotter and hotter when John angled himself differently and his hoarse cries became rougher. Face flushed and lip bitten through, his movements faltered as he clawed at Arthur’s shoulders, scrambling for purchase. Arthur took over, driving John back towards that spot inside that was making him clench and slur absolute filth from his swollen lips. He wrapped a fist around John’s cock, painfully rigid and throbbing, pumping him in time with his own thrusts. That did it. John cried out Arthur’s name, loud enough someone that _had_ to hear, making a mess as he spilled out thick and hot onto their stomachs.

Arthur kept stroking him through it all, murmuring sweet nothings into the crook of his neck, until John sagged into a boneless heap and panted like he couldn’t catch his breath. He moved to lift his spent lover off of him but the act was taken like a slap across the face. John hooked an arm around Arthur’s neck, glaring at him. “We ain’t done here.”

“Excuse me for being courteous,” he grunted, but John bared his teeth in a wolfish grin as he began to roll his hips again.

He didn’t fight John, nor his body anymore, and it wasn’t long before that blinding pressure consumed him whole. Eyes slammed shut, Arthur shuddered violently as he came inside John, mouthing at his neck and holding onto his lover like he might crumble to ash in his hands. How his bones didn’t splinter under the strain was a goddamn mystery. Back arched, John had a shit-eating grin that made Arthur wish he wasn’t so winded so he could fire out a sarcastic remark. Instead he slumped against John, who held onto him, expression falling into a sort of contentment that made Arthur want to kiss him again.

\--

To his surprise, the most expensive room at The Blackwater Hotel still had a bit of character. It was like stepping back twenty years in time. The dark wood and wicker furniture paired well with the pale green lincrusta wallpaper, so deeply embossed it was hard to resist the childlike urge to touch it. What possessed them to install stained glass interior doors though—Arthur surely didn’t know. Unlike Micah’s room, you’d think Dutch had been living here forever. His preferred art pieces had replaced what the room had come ready with. Evelyn Miller, Upton Sinclair, and D. H. Lawrence books were scattered about. The closet was full of clothes and a sheer negligee lay strewn across the loveseat. Even the old phonograph that had kept Arthur up many a night sat proudly on the ornately carved desk where he sat, sketching in the sunlight that streamed around the flowing curtains.

Once more his hands sought to capture a memory of John. Naked and stretched out along the couch with one leg propped up. Eyes alight with some unknown emotion as he held Arthur’s gaze. The cherry of his cigarette the brightest thing in the room.

“Still ain’t quite sure how I got so lucky,” Arthur murmured, writing those words underneath the drawing.

In the distance, church bells chimed one. Arthur closed his journal and drummed his fingers along its leather cover, wondering how much longer Dutch’s lunch with Micah in the hotel restaurant would last. Dutch didn’t bother to invite him, not wanting the bad blood between the two to spoil his meal. Given his love of talking, Arthur wouldn’t place his chips on anytime soon, even though he himself had sent Arthur up to his room to wait.

Casually Arthur peeked inside the desk drawers one at a time. Empty. Empty. An old handkerchief. Empty. The largest of the drawers was also bare but strangely it was smaller than the exterior suggested. He tapped the base of it, then Arthur grabbed a letter opener laying on the desk and dug it in along the edges. Sure enough it moved and Arthur wiggled it until he was able to pry the false bottom up.

A younger version of himself along with Dutch and Hosea in their prime stared up at him. Arthur picked up the picture frame, remembering taking that photo all those years ago in that overpriced studio not long after their first bank robbery. God, had he ever really been so young? Apparently. That sour-faced scoundrel was him alright. Wearing a black bandana around his neck like some sort of desperado. How embarrassing.

On the other side lay numerous letters showing varying stages of age. He flipped through. All of them were to and from Annabelle. He immediately set them down. Arthur rarely felt shame for rifling through suspects’ personal belongings but seeing that Dutch was still writing to his long dead love caused a lump of self-loathing to form in his throat. Not easy to swallow, he was about to put the false cover back when a couple of crumpled up pieces of paper shoved to furthest corners caught his attention. They stood out in such a neatly organized drawer. Arthur grabbed them and gasped. Left-slanted loopy letters—Heidi’s writing.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Molly stood in the doorway, bejeweled hand still grasping the doorknob tightly. The shock on her face was rapidly turning to outrage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *Writes an action sequence in like an hour or two*  
Also Me: *Spends two weeks writing a smut scene*
> 
> Can you tell which of the two I'm more used to writing? *Laughs nervously*
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


	17. Ghosts That Linger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a confusing confrontation with Molly and heated argument with Dutch, Arthur is forced once again into a situation he very much doesn't want to be in.

If you think a woman can’t be intimidating in a pink paisley dress, you would be wrong. At the wrong end of a stare that could burn holes through concrete, Arthur was glad he seldom incited the wrath of Molly O’Shea. You would’ve thought he violated her privacy, not Dutch’s. Perhaps she considered herself and him one in the same and to slight Dutch was to draw blood from her as well. Immobilized in the doorway, her gaze flickered between the desk Arthur had been rifling through and the small crumpled papers in his hands as if she couldn’t make up her mind what was more troubling. One slip-up from a scream that’d bring all sorts of unwanted attention, he had to play this one right.

Molly gave a huff like she was already anticipating lame excuses. “You not hear me? What are you doing?”

“My job.”

Why lie when your hands were slathered red? His nonchalance backfired somewhat. Molly tossed the door shut and stormed forward with all the indignation she could muster. His expression hardened in anticipation of a good slap.

“You didn’t fool me for a second,” she hissed. “I knew you hadn’t quit the case!”

“Dutch think that too? That why he sent you here? That why you were so determined to make conversation in Saint Denis?” Arthur gave her a cruel grin when she struggled to respond. “And there I was thinkin’ maybe you was lonesome.”

“Why don’t you just admit it?”

“Ladies first.”

Molly scowled. “You’re just like the rest of ‘em. Think you’re so clever.”

“I have my moments.” Arthur scratched his jaw, feeling anything but clever right now. “Usually they’re flukes.”

Why had he even bothered with the ruse? Dutch had always been able to see through Arthur like glass. He must have known the whole time he hadn’t given up on the case and only went along because it suited him. A bit like playing chess with the man, Dutch was always several steps ahead. Arthur had to find a way to spin the board around.

“Look, I ain’t after anything that’ll send Dutch to the chair,” Arthur began, hoping to placate her. Or at least get Molly to release the breath she was holding. “I’m just lookin’ for suggestions. Wherever they may lead me, that’s where I’ll go. Heidi was a person, Molly. A person who had her life snatched away and the living owe it to her to find out why.”

Arthur placed extra emphasis on that final bit. Sure enough Molly’s hard stare softened along with her stance; shoulders sinking in particular. Whether they were weighed down by grief or guilt he couldn’t say.

“So, what, you expect me to keep quiet ‘bout this?”

“Not really.”

Molly crossed her arms at that, then flicked her chin towards the papers in his hands. “What’s that you got there?”

“Good question.” Arthur smoothed out the creases and traced a finger along the torn edges of the papers as he skimmed through Heidi’s writing. No doubt ripped out of a book. “Seems Heidi was once nearly mugged behind a bar.”

Molly plucked one of the papers from him and read the end aloud, “‘It was the darnedest thing. Mr. Matthews suddenly came out the back door and scared the man off with a look alone. I’m so grateful but…now I can’t help but wonder if those nasty rumors about him are true.’”

The remaining pages carried on like this; notes about things she saw and heard while working for Hosea. Eventually Heidi answered her own question. These pages were from her diary. The one newspapers and Milton himself when initially confronted by John cited as the source of the motive for her suicide—her failed acting career. Arthur had longed to get his hands on it, but the diary was missing from the evidence room and no one had returned the all-important item to Dorothy McCourt following the end of the police investigation.

“These read like a diary. Why would Dutch have these?” A touch of panic entered her voice. “Does that mean he did it?”

“No.” Arthur folded and slipped the papers into his pocket. “Just means Dutch or someone he knows has her diary.”

Didn’t need three guesses to figure out who. Heidi’s diary had to be the little book Micah obtained during that masked meeting with Milton and Ross. Arthur would bet his last penny on it. These torn pages cast an unflattering light on Hosea, particularly him informing Heidi upon her termination she was not to speak of what she saw. Were these papers meant to be planted like the murder weapon?

Frowning deeply, Molly’s attention turned to the letters in the drawer. Arthur stepped in front to block her. “I wouldn’t.”

Two-for-two; wrong thing to say and do. Curiosity peaked, Molly placed her hands on her hips and stared Arthur down until he moved aside, cursing himself silently. He had no idea if Molly knew who Annabelle was but got his answer when she threw the love letters onto the desk like they had singed her fingertips. He tidied the contents then placed the false cover back down, closing the drawer while Molly took a few steps away to collect herself.

“Listen,” Arthur started slowly, knowing he was the absolute last person who should be doling out advice on relationships and mourning. But guilt had him by the balls and wasn’t going to let go until he at least tried to cheer her up. “Annabelle has been dead for fifteen years—”

“Do you write to your dead wife?” Arthur flinched at this and regret crinkled Molly’s face. “Forgive me. That was a horrible thing to ask.”

“S’fine.” Arthur half-shrugged. “Everyone grieves differently.”

That sounded hollow even to his own ears. He wasn’t surprised when Molly asked out of frustration, “How am I supposed to measure up to a ghost?”

Arthur had no grounds to speak about moving on. Not when he had buried his heart along with his wife and child and only recently had he dug it up, surprised it had not rotted away entirely. He felt for Molly. Same way he felt for all the women Dutch had gone through since Annabelle was murdered.

“You can’t. It ain’t up to you. The one who’s being haunted has gotta exorcise their ghosts.”

Molly stared as if he had said something profound and Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, eyeing the door. The desire to flee worsened when she grasped his arms. Her lips parted but nothing came out; tongue likely held hostage by the war raging within over what she wanted to say and what she could.

“You don’t have to—”

“Dutch doesn’t let go of anything, Arthur.”

There was something indistinguishable in her voice. Like a siren in the distance he could hardly make out. Molly squeezed his arms as if she was desperate for him to understand. But what? Arthur knew Dutch’s grudge against Hosea rested inside of his heart. That it made hatred not blood flow through his veins when his anger got the best of him. Before he could question her, the door opened. Molly pulled away as Dutch strolled in with a particularly self-satisfied air. Must’ve had one hell of a lunch. That or he had hatched another half-baked plan. Arthur would find out soon. Whether he liked it or not.

“Everything alright?” he asked, eyeing their proximity.

Molly’s smile, if you can call it that, brought the temperature of the room down. “Perfectly alright.”

Dutch didn’t try to stop her as she left without another word, though the slam of the door said plenty. He gave Arthur an exasperated side glance. “Why is it that women always expect men to be mind readers when they’re upset?”

Not knowing how to answer that and baffled by Molly not immediately revealing his treachery, Arthur opted for silence. Rather than go after her, Dutch slipped into his velvet smoking jacket; glaringly red with golden tassels at the end of the tie belt. Someone was ready to get comfy.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Dutch tossed the negligee laying on the couch aside before sitting down. “Lost track of time.”

“I’m sure Mr. Bell is a riveting conversationalist.”

“Well, he does have tools in his repertoire beyond sarcasm.” Dutch ran a lazy finger along a box of Guarman cigars resting atop the glass coffee table. “What brings you by today, son? Or am I going to need a crystal ball to figure out how I’ve wronged you as well?”

Arthur shifted his weight. “I’m not here to pick a fight.”

“That’s a first.” Dutch dragged the cigar under his nose and inhaled its aroma. He then cut the cap end off and let it fall to the floor before gesturing casually to the lounge chair. “Sit.”

He didn’t move. “I’m here to discuss Milton and Ross.”

Dutch leaned back and set his feet on the table. “I can’t think of a more boring subject.”

“Really? Thought you’d appreciate talking ‘bout them seeing as they’ve been breaking the law. Ain’t that your favorite thing to do?”

“Sit down, son.” Only when Arthur unbuttoned his gray suit jacket and lowered himself into the seat did Dutch continue. “You don’t change, do you? Still that guarded little orphan underneath it all.”

Arthur snorted as he struggled to get comfortable in the too-stiff seat. “You ain’t changed yourself. I swear, every time I try to talk to you, I can feel my hair turnin’ gray.”

“Despite our differences to this day I still think taking you under my wing was one of the best decisions I ever made.”

There he went again. A straight conversation with Dutch was impossible. He always grabbed the steering wheel and veered off the road whenever he didn’t care for the direction they were headed. Had a bad habit too of cutting Hosea out of the narrative. Arthur remembered being fourteen and laying beneath a blanket for the first time in three years. Too scared to let down his guard around two strange men he had only just met, Arthur had pretended to be asleep. Dutch spoke of wanting to nurture the spark in Arthur into a fire that could keep them all warm for years to come. Hosea felt an orphanage would be better. Someplace where the boy could work and grow up decent.

“Y’know I’m grateful.”

Dutch fiddled with the matchbook in his fingers. “Are you?”

Arthur could practically hear Dutch thinking of all the ways he had disappointed him over the years. “Look, I don’t want to take another trip down memory lane. I came here to—”

“Did Hosea tell you he’s dying?” He asked this in the way someone would about the weather. It was for show. The flare of his nostrils and how carefully he set aside the cigar and matches spoke of anything but casual indifference.

“Yes.”

Acknowledgement didn’t make it feel any less like a sucker punch. Breathless and aching, Arthur closed his eyes and once more he was standing before the house where they once lived, listening to Hosea tell him everything. Lung cancer. Doctors gave him six months last October. But not to worry, for he had “too many affairs to set in order” to die anytime soon. As if Hosea could boss around cancer like one of his employees. It was too much. Knowing he would shatter upon speaking and determined not to make this situation about his own pain, Arthur reverted to his younger self. Quiet and nodding along stupidly until they parted ways.

“I can understand him not telling me,” Dutch said, bringing Arthur back to the present. Now he stood beside him, hovering in the corner of Arthur’s vision not unlike a wolf lurking in the shadows. “After all, we haven’t been on the best terms for fifteen years. But not telling you? That was cruel.”

“I ain’t mad at him if that’s what you’re driving at.”

Arthur didn’t know how much time he had left with Hosea and wasn’t about to squander it on anger. What upset him was that there was nothing he could do. This was something Arthur could not protect Hosea from. Instead he must watch another loved one waste away, as he did with Bessie.

“Let me guess, he framed it as not wanting to burden you.” Arthur winced. Right on the nose. “Hosea has always underestimated your strength. He’s long been under the illusion that you need protection from the realities of the world.”

Don’t get mad. Don’t get mad. Don’t get—

“I know how hard this must be for you.” Christ, his face must be something pitiful for Dutch to be looking at him like that. He placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, rubbing small circles with his thumb. “I’m so sorry, son.”

Arthur rose and brushed Dutch’s hand away. “If you really gave a damn, you’d leave Hosea the hell alone and stop with all this.”

You would’ve thought Arthur slapped Dutch with the way his face contorted.

“You think finding out he’s dying made me happy?”

“No, but—”

“Always so fast to jump to his defense. Why is that? What has Hosea done to earn your unwavering devotion? Lest you forget that I was the one who convinced him to let you stay. I was the one who taught you how to shoot, how to fight, how to _survive_. I made you into the man that you are and I have always had your best interests at heart, Arthur, even when you betray me time and again.”

The longer he spoke the more impassioned he became. There were so many things Arthur wanted to say, but he refrained. That’s what Dutch wanted. He wanted a fight because he could twist words and yield the past as a weapon in ways Arthur couldn’t. Instead Arthur made for the door.

“I didn’t send Milton and Ross to break into your office,” Dutch spat out. “If I were you, I’d keep an eye out for them. What with Beecher’s Hope reopening and all.”

Arthur froze, body rigid as he turned around slowly in the doorway.

“Mr. Marston must be so thrilled. Molly is. Poor girl has missed singing there.” Dutch bared his teeth like he couldn’t remember how to actually smile. “I do wonder if the lovely Miss Roberts will be in attendance or if she’ll remain at home with their child? Be a shame for her to miss it. I heard it’s going to be quite the celebration.”

“Didn’t realize extortion was you having my best interests at heart.”

Dutch’s face soured.

\-- February 1916 --

Heart near ready to burst with joy, Arthur could barely dish out apologies in time as he hurriedly squeezed himself through the crowded saloon. Everyone was hiding indoors to escape the snowstorm. Talk of the war filled the air of the musty room as it did in every bar from here to New York. You’d think it was their fight even though no American blood had stained the soil of Europe. Yet. Rumor had it ol’ Woodrow might change that. Normally such talk would dampen his spirits. But not today.

“Dutch!”

His mentor was at the bar, hunched over, and staring at a shot of gin. Hair unkempt, haphazardly dressed, face sagging from a lack of sleep, not chatting up a storm—something was wrong. Dutch barely looked up from the large ‘D’ ring on his middle finger when Arthur sat down. Must be missing poor Annabelle more than usual today. Arthur tried to temper his enthusiasm, not wanting to be disrespectful.

“Hello son.” Dutch’s eyes went wide and he began brushing off all the snow from his coat and his newly (and proudly) grown mustache and beard. “Christ, you look half frozen to death.”

“I’m fine—”

“Barkeep!” Dutch barked out, almost smiling when Arthur flushed red. “Get him some goddamn cider!”

With every set of eyes at the bar on him, Arthur tried to shrink inside the checkered red scarf Dutch had wrapped around his neck. Embarrassment, not alcohol, would warm him up plenty. He continued to fuss over him until Arthur took a swig from the mug the bartender slid over; liquid sloshed down the sides.

“So, have you heard the _wonderful_ news?”

Oh. Guess he had heard. Arthur wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Isn’t it great?”

Hosea and Bessie were finally going to get married and take a shot at a decent life. Engaged for almost a year now, they put off their plans seven months ago when Annabelle was found slain. This was the first spark of happiness in their lives since that horrible day. After their most recent bank job, Hosea had finally saved enough money to buy Bessie a house. It was strange to be so sad and so happy all at once. Yes, Hosea and Bessie would be leaving, but Arthur was thrilled for them. They had wanted this for so long.

“Sure,” Dutch grunted, downing his gin.

“You sad ‘bout Hosea leaving?” he asked softly. If there was one thing Arthur couldn’t bare it was seeing people he cared about upset. He understood though. Dutch and Hosea were closer than brothers; two halves of the same person at times with the way they operated. “Don’t be, Dutch. We can go visit them anytime you like.”

“Doubt they’d appreciate us intruding on their new civilized lives.” Dutch slouched against the bar; face marred by raw sorrow. “It’s just…I thought we were…something. You know? He’s the only one, aside from my darling Annabelle, who has ever understood me. How am I supposed to carry on with our mission if—” He sighed heavily. “I guess, well, I’m gonna miss him.”

“This ain’t goodbye forever. Hosea and Bessie love us like family. Hell, he asked if I wanted to come live with them. They’d be more than happy—”

Dutch stared blankly at him. “Hosea asked what?”

Arthur knew two things: that he had made a grave mistake and that Dutch heard him loud and clear the first time. Somehow his face remained neutral, yet his eyes filled with malice the way water flooded a sinking ship. Barely unnoticeable and then all-too-fast to contend with. The longer Dutch stared him down the more Arthur felt like he was drowning in that quiet, seething sort of rage.

“You know how he is,” Arthur blurted out, desperate to smooth things over. Why did he say anything? It was just something silly Hosea mentioned in passing. “Always going on ‘bout how I’ve got a good heart and could be somebody. How I oughta take a chance at being decent. Just the usual sort of nonsense. I told him no.” He leaned forward. “My place is by your side.”

His jaw worked while he said nothing for a long time, though he latched onto Arthur’s wrist resting along the bar. “Oh, my boy,” he murmured so low that Arthur scarcely heard him over the saloon chatter. “Hosea said that to me too. Long time ago.”

He sounded so heartbroken that Arthur kept quiet as Dutch started to tell him about when he first met Hosea. Nodding along rather than point out any of the glaring inconsistencies in a story he had heard time and again.

\-- May 1931 --

Stillwater Creek was where the Montana seeped out like veins into the soil of New Austin. Mud clung to his boots as Arthur crept through the thick undergrowth. The squishing and squashing under his feet and the hum of too many flies buzzing set his nerves on edge. Beads of sweat bled out into the dark fabric that stuck to him like a second skin. Sure, the trees hung low and sparse shacks scattered along the wayward waterways seemed empty. But Arthur felt like a thief scaling a busy building in broad daylight. Exposed. It was a matter of if, not when, they would get caught.

Bill Williamson swore as the ankle-deep muck stole his boot. “Hey Morgan, what do ya reckon is worse? This place or Lemoyne?”

“Lemoyne,” Arthur replied, spooling out more wire to attach it to the stick of dynamite Bill had plastered onto the side of a shack. “You lose your boot in those swamps? A gator will come bite your ass while you try to yank it out.”

“Fair enough,” he snorted, pulling it free and shoving his foot back inside.

For as much as Dutch liked to provoke his ex-partner over the years, Hosea wasn’t innocent on that front. Stillwater was one of several rum-running operations belonging to the Matthews Outfit in the state. New Austin wasn’t Dutch’s territory in the way that West Elizabeth was to Hosea, but it was the principal of the matter. Hosea knew what he was doing. So did Dutch and suddenly after all these years he was now tired of it. Wanted them all gone. Unlucky for him, Arthur only knew this one spot. A swamp near lonely roads that eventually led to the heart of Hennigan’s Stead. Prime location for crime. Long neglected as developers kept their sights set solely on bringing the ghost town that was Thieves Landing back to life. Decades before, all the bandits were driven away. The law didn’t count on bootleggers taking their place.

“You sure no one is gonna show?”

“We did the surveillance like you asked, Morgan. Hosea’s folks only show up here ‘round two in the morning. We got hours ‘til they show so quit worryin’.” Bill squinted over his shoulder at Arthur. “Y’know for someone who supposedly isn’t part of the Matthews Outfit, you sure do care a lot about them.”

“Just don’t want anyone to get hurt. You and Escuella included.”

“Aw, I’m touched, Morgan.”

“Touched in the head, more like.”

Bill scowled loudly and stomped ahead, swearing when the mud slowed down his efforts. Arthur rolled his eyes. The man always had his damn hackles raised and was easier to set off than a landmine. What did he know about Bill? Not much except he practically worshiped the ground Dutch walked on and was a casualty not of the war but of the peace that followed. To a soldier lost and unable to find his place in the new world, a leader like Dutch who promised the sun and the stars must have seemed like a godsend.

Right now Bill was muttering curses as they set off towards the last shack where Javier was keeping watch with his binoculars. When Arthur heard him grunt out “Micah,” he could not help but tug at that thread.

“Say, why you doing this horseshit and not some newer member of the Van der Linde cult?”

“Ain’t a cult, Morgan, but that’s a question I’d certainly like an answer to.” Bill pulled out another stick of dynamite from his bag. “You know, I’ve been with Dutch the longest—well, no, second longest! And Javier’s been around for forever too and we’re out here doin’ this shit. Meanwhile folks like Micah get to kick back and relax. How’s that right?”

“It ain’t,” Arthur replied, shaking his head.

“Ay, we talking shit about Micah?” Javier sauntered over with a mischievous grin. “Why didn’t you boys tell me?”

Oh, excellent. Arthur wondered if the glee inside was similar to what gossiping hens felt when someone dished out dirt. “Thought you got along with him?”

“I’m a professional.” Javier brushed some imaginary lint off his charcoal vest; clothes too expensive to be worn in a place like this. “I try to keep my true feelings hidden.”

“Yeah, such a professional that you pulled a knife on Micah when he called you a greaser.”

Javier shrugged sheepishly. “I was simply speaking to him in his language. He’s like a mad dog. The only thing he understands is violence.” His grin widened. “Now he knows not to fuck with me.”

“Wish you’d finished the job,” Bill said dryly. “He’s magically wormed his way into Dutch’s good graces. Meanwhile us long-time folks are gettin’ pushed out. He’s only been with us what, ten months?”

Arthur did the math in his head. “Was Dutch the one who got the triple homicide charges against Micah dropped?”

Bill and Javier squinted at one another as if they could find the answer written on the other’s forehead.

“Nah, don’t think so,” Bill replied. “Dutch seemed just as surprised when Micah showed up claiming it had been a big misunderstanding.”

“‘Cause you know,” Javier added, “shooting off people’s faces is open to interpretation.”

“Well, everyone in the Van der Linde gang has far more patience than I ever will. Last time we spoke I nearly strangled Micah.”

“You had every right,” Bill said firmly. “He tried to kill you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Arthur’s brows bent. “How’d you know about that?”

“Micah came clean about it,” Javier replied instantly, shooting Bill a shut-the-hell-up look. “Kinda had to when Dutch saw those finger-shaped bruises all over his neck. He was going on and on about how it was a mistake, how he panicked in a moment of weakness, practically begging for forgiveness.” He chuckled. “It was kinda pathetic.”

Arthur didn’t hear much of what Javier said, but he certainly heard his own voice and hated how small it sounded. “…Dutch knows Micah tried to kill me and he didn’t care?”

God, that shouldn’t hurt. But it did.

There was an awkward beat of silence before Javier flicked his chin at Bill and he gently took the spool from Arthur. “I’ll wrap things up.”

He nodded in thanks, now feeling like an ass for teasing him earlier.

Arthur hated this. He hated that no matter what he did in life Dutch would always find a way to sink his claws back into him. He hated that he had no idea if John and Abigail were, in fact, safe tonight. Most of all, he hated that Dutch still had such power over him that he could still crush his heart years after he had torn it out.

“I still owe you for helping me escape in Saint Denis,” Javier commented as they watched Bill set up the detonator at a safe distance. Arthur waved him off but he persisted. “Nah, nah! I’ll figure something out—oh shit!”

Javier scrambled to raise his binoculars but it was needless. The repetitive rumble of motorboats cutting through the water was unmistakable. Arthur got out his own and did a double-take when he saw Sadie and Kieran whizzing ahead of the others. She was gunning it while Kieran took aim, firing one shot after another at them. Despite being outnumbered and outgunned, Javier still fired back at them with his revolver as he booked it to his own boat. Not wanting to get shot, Arthur pulled himself up onto the crumbling boardwalk, intending to follow Javier. Then he spotted Bill crouching down behind a tree, eyeing Sadie’s boat as it got closer and closer to one of the shacks.

“Bill, don’t!”

He pushed the detonator down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the ending. I had to cut it off there because of reasons pertaining to the next chapter--which John will be back for. One of these days I won't end on a cliffhanger. Maybe not this chapter, maybe not the next one, but the one after that!
> 
> Thank you very much for reading and for your continued support of this story. Until next time! <3


	18. A Runaway Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chaos at Stillwater Creek results in unexpected consequences that leave Arthur both unsettled and more determined than ever to keep John and his family safe.

Must have been some moonshine in the shack behind him. Blown off his feet, Arthur went face-first into the mud. Every muscle ached from the impact. He lay silent and still while the world around him was anything but. Pretty sure the folks over in Saint Denis could hear the explosions. Only when his lungs began protesting did he lift his head. Bullets flying above. Mud to suffocate in. The world on fire. Arthur gasped for air but he couldn’t breathe. The vibrant evening sky had dulled into a heavy gray and land pockmarked by shells now stretched out before him. The creek was gone. Arthur blinked and blinked but flashes of olive and khaki still streamed by, uniformed men bound for the enemy line.

Was he dead? If so, he’d gone to the right place. There was no worse fate than to be back here. No Man’s Land. Surrounded by the empty eyes and gaping mouths of his friends and fellow soldiers. Arthur shook his head but the gunfire didn’t cease and the fallen didn’t spring back to life. Thirteen-year-old wounds pained him as if freshly pierced by shrapnel and his fingers clawed into the mud.

A glimpse of gold caught his eye. Among the smoke and the haze and barbed wire snarled with corpses, a lone stag stood in the center of the battlefield. It seemed to stare through him until a shell exploded, startling the creature. Then, as with now, something inside urged Arthur to follow. He crawled on his belly expecting to be led back to the trenches, but this time murky water rushed over his hands and arms. As Stillwater Creek filled in around the edges, the stag didn’t fade with the rest of his memories. It took off and vanished from his line of sight.

Great.

He was losing his mind. Again.

“Sadie! Kieran!”

Arthur didn’t have any time to mull over what just happened. Not with their overturned boat laying half sunken nearby. Not with the shacks and boardwalk aflame; black smoke billowing up and drawing forth faint sounds of sirens. The water wasn’t cold but it was thick with floating debris. That slowed him just as much. In the pockets of silence between the rounds of gunfire, he called their names but got no answer.

After gulping down some air, Arthur dove under the boat. Unable to see he swam with his arms outstretched, feeling around blindly, terrified he would find one of their bodies bobbing lifelessly. Fortunately, only splintered wood graced his hands and he kicked towards the surface. His relief was short-lived. On the opposite shore, Kieran was half-slumped over and shaking Sadie frantically. The crown of her blonde hair was stained with blood.

“A-Arthur?” Kieran blinked as if he didn’t trust his eyes. He had a hell of a nosebleed and his pale skin was marred with nicks from shattered glass.

“Give her here.” Arthur slopped water everywhere as he pulled himself out and gestured to Kieran’s face. “Take care of that.”

“What are you doing here—” Arthur took Sadie and laid her out straight, then reached for Kieran’s nose but he scooted backwards and pinched it himself. “Alright! Alright! Jesus, Arthur…”

“Mrs. Adler?” There was a pulse. Good. He could work with unconscious. “You stay with us.”

Arthur pulled down Sadie’s chin slightly to make breathing easier and then took off and wrung out his shirt before pressing the fabric against the wound. What she needed was a doctor, not some fool who only had the basics of first-aid to draw upon. Arthur couldn’t leave though. Not with Javier missing; motorboat riddled with holes and sinking. Not with Bill trapped under gunfire, courtesy of the Matthews Outfit. Five men strong, they had been forced to abandon their boats but not their objective. Let them be alive. Please. Arthur didn’t want to see Bill or Javier dead anymore than Sadie or Kieran. What a goddamn mess.

“You need to get outta here. Keep low and head south.”

Still pinching his nose, Kieran’s voice was both irate and nasally. “I’m—I’m not gonna cut and run! What do you take me for?”

“For an idiot if you don’t scram. You hear those sirens? Now ain’t the time to try to prove yourself, boy.”

“Says you. Most folks still see me as an O’Driscoll.” Kieran nodded at Sadie. “Her included.”

Arthur closed his eyes. At this rate he was going to have to drag two people to safety. He jostled her a bit but Sadie still didn’t stir. If she died, it was on him. If only he had found a way to alert Hosea about Dutch’s plans without risking John and his family. With a lifetime’s worth of could haves and should haves under his belt, Arthur wondered how many more he’d rack up before all this madness was through.

Growing desperate, he scooped up some water and dumped it on Sadie’s face. Not expecting it to work, when she sputtered and jerked violently, hitting him in the jaw and causing a surprised Kieran to topple over, he wheezed out a laugh that didn’t sound anything like his own.

“What the hell?” Sadie snapped, eyes bleary but full of indignation. She immediately sat up straight, only to go right back down with a groan, clutching her skull.

“Easy now, Mrs. Adler. You hit your head awful hard.”

“No kidding,” she spat, taking the shirt from him to hold it herself. “Quit hovering over me, will ya? I’m _fine_. Just need to get my bearings.”

Having no desire for another swift left hook, Arthur shifted back as requested. “How’d you know we were here?”

“Anonymous, last minute tip-off.” Sadie’s face scrunched in pain and Arthur could almost hear the pounding behind her eyes despite the flash of clarity in them. “He got his hooks in you again, huh?”

Despite the gunfire and the wailing sirens in the distance, the sympathy in her voice was loud and clear. Arthur turned his head away in shame. They were acquaintances at best. Yet here Sadie was. Feeling sorry for him. Understanding of his predicament. He didn’t deserve her compassion. Extortion or not, Arthur would rather have the two of them tear into him for going behind Hosea’s back.

It was then he realized Kieran was missing.

Javier shot out of the water. Bound towards the low hanging trees, he ducked and weaved and took cover where he could. Sure, he wasn’t an easy target but Arthur’s heart still rose up to his throat and cut off his ability to breathe. This mad dash was like a man dangling one foot over the edge of a cliff. A step away from suicide. The smart thing would have been to leave the other behind. Sail away before the bullets came. Flee into the bushes after pressing the detonator. But like Arthur, the importance of loyalty was embedded so deep into their bones that self-preservation never entered their list of options. Bill and Javier wouldn’t desert the other. Sadie and Kieran were the same. Loyalty was the noose everyone here would hang themselves with.

Flashing lights from police cars brightened the skyline. The gunfire collapsed and one-by-one the others fled on foot. Javier seized his chance and ran forward. The sudden silence also drew forth a shadow lurking in the tall grass. Arthur tried to stop him but Sadie tossed the bloodied shirt aside and latched both arms around his waist. Kieran rose with a rifle; hands wavering.

“Don’t!”

He fired.

Javier went down.

Bill came out from the trees swearing and firing his guns wildly. Anger ruined his accuracy but Kieran still dove into the water for safety. Despite the New Austin State Police rolling in and surrounding the area, Bill hurried to where his friend had fallen. Arthur pried Sadie off but she wouldn’t let herself be brushed aside in any matter, moving in front of him with her arms wide.

“We gotta go.” Her voice brooked no argument. “Now.”

Air blew loudly from his nose as Arthur tried to keep his fury in check. He had to leave. The longer he stayed, the longer Sadie and Kieran would be in danger because they wouldn’t leave without him. Her face was still scrunched up in pain though and he was two seconds from tossing her over his shoulder.

“I can still run even if I’m seeing double,” Sadie snapped, somehow reading his mind.

“You ain’t fit to run anywhere!”

“You’re the one who’ll need to be carried if you even _try_ to pick me up!”

Kieran resurfaced, gasping for air, waving his hand for them to go ahead without him. Arthur and Sadie weren’t having any of that. They yanked him back onto land before bolting. With the main road now clogged with police, Sadie led the way as they crouch-walked through the tall grass. He threw a hasty glance back over his shoulder. Bill had scooped up Javier and was running away. The farthest from the law, they had the best chance to escape. Whether he was alive though, Arthur couldn’t tell.

“Shit!” Sadie hissed, ducking lower. “We gotta turn around.”

Three more cop cars and a firetruck showed up, skidding onto the grass in their path. Guess Thieves Landing was more developed than he thought. They retraced their steps to the creek then cut across just above the basin. Water weighed down their clothes and made their open sprint more difficult. Sadie ran like she knew where she wanted to go, but her stride was uneasy. Arthur and Kieran each grabbed an arm and kept her upright. She let them but her expression revealed her annoyance.

The state police finally spotted them, hollering and firing warning shots before scrambling back into their vehicles. Damn. They kept running even though the soggy soil made it a chore. Exhaustion building and lungs burning, without a car they weren’t getting out of here. Their only chance was the road ahead. Although Arthur knew what he needed to do, he desperately didn’t want to. Yet his hands had already pulled up his bandana.

He brought both Sadie and Kieran to the ground. “Stay here. Stay low.”

Both erupted into breathless questions but he left them behind, creeping up the slope with his sights locked on an approaching blue car. Hijacking was a piece of cake and he had served up many slices in his life. Familiarity made exhaustion fall away like the dried mud crumbling from his skin. Arthur stood in the middle of the road and stared down the driver from behind his pistol, stalking forward in the glare of the headlights. Not like he could fire a wet gun, but the woman driving didn’t catch his bluff. The tires screeched across the pavement as she slammed on the breaks.

Arthur couldn’t look the screaming woman in the eye as he ripped her out of the car.

\--

John must have bribed every cop on the local beat. Half past two and the hot jazz was still bleeding out into the night; heads bobbing to the beat all the way down the street. Entering the speakeasy was a bit like falling into a kaleidoscope, an array of colors hit him from every corner and left him disoriented. Customers were kicking up their heels and then some; spinning and dancing that fast lindy hop that Arthur was certain would leave his own legs in a knot. Confetti and balloons covered every surface and the tables were decorated with half empty glasses of booze. Between the chatter and the laughter and the off-key singing from the bolder patrons, it was a wonder people were even able to hold conversations.

In the thick of it, Arthur felt like an outsider. Sure, he had washed up and was dressed as well as any other man. It was just that everyone was so damn happy. Uncle was grinning as he tried to charm this statuesque blonde who looked like she wasn’t buying whatever he was selling. Abigail was laughing at whatever Molly had just told her, who herself was red in the face from drink. The dancers didn’t have plastered-on-smiles. Theirs were the real McCoy. Then there was the beau of the ball. Empty champagne flute in hand and confetti all over his hair and shoulders, John wore a goofy smile as he watched everyone while sitting on the bar counter. Somehow when their eyes met, John managed to light up even more.

“Well, well. Finally decided to show up, huh?” John tried to saunter over with a come-hither stare, but the sultry effect Arthur assumed he was going for was ruined by his inability to walk in a straight line.

Arthur decided to make things easier for his favorite drunkard by marching right over. Of course he came. Thanks to a telephone call with Jack’s sleepy babysitter, he knew they were safe. But it wasn’t enough. Arthur _had_ to see John. His lover had a way of absorbing all his attention. The closer they got the more the world fell away. Arthur didn’t want to think about Hosea’s exasperated sigh when he opened the door in his housecoat and immediately began doling out orders to his staff to clean up his son’s mess. He didn’t want to think about how easily violence and crime came to him. Never the last resort. Always the first or second. He really didn’t want to think about Javier or about that goddamn stag. Must’ve hit his head harder than he thought. That was the only possible explanation for how it was able to leap out of the past into the present.

Right now, Arthur didn’t want to think about anything other than John. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Normally he wasn’t so brazen but consequences were the last thing on his mind. Arthur placed his hand on the back of John’s head and brought them together. The younger man made a delighted little noise, parting his lips eagerly. Before Arthur could deepen the kiss properly, John went weak in the knees and he had to hook an arm around his waist to hold him up.

“I think you’ve had too much champagne,” Arthur murmured as the kiss became all teeth because John couldn’t stop smiling.

“Is there such a thing?” John’s grin grew sloppy as he tossed his arms loosely around his neck; all starry-eyed like Arthur held the night sky in his gaze. “You look like shit, Morgan.”

Soap and water could do a lot but it couldn’t wash away the guilt Arthur suspected was marring his already haggard face. “You sure are a charmin’ son of a bitch.”

“Charmed the pants off you, didn’t I?” Boy, he had walked right into that one. No pithy retort in mind, Arthur went in for another kiss but halted when John murmured, “Somethin’ wrong?”

“Not anymore.”

John pressed a wet kiss to his cheekbone, only for his eyes to flash wide. Arthur’s stomach lurched around the same time. They weren’t exactly alone. Most seemed preoccupied with their own lives but there were a few open stares and audible whispers—until John’s death glare scattered them. He then turned to the nearest bartender who had been staring intently at the glass he had been drying for the last two minutes.

“If anyone asks, I’m not here.”

“Sure, boss.”

He grabbed Arthur’s hand and hurried towards his office. Grinning like a fool, Arthur let himself be led. John was on him even before they had shut the door.

\--

Tilly hung up the phone and then drew a line through the final name on her list. “That’s the fourth person to mention a magician hanging around Mr. Van der Linde.”

Although certain key names like Dutch and Micah were missing from the Serendipity’s “official” New Year’s Eve guestlist, Arthur figured it was worth a shot to call up those who were on it. As expected, none of the guests had any grand revelations about the tragedy. However, several noted seeing a flamboyant, top hat-wearing gentleman who went back and forth between speaking with Dutch and dazzling people with magic tricks.

“I’ll track this fellow down.” Arthur put his hat on. “Maybe he can help establish a more accurate timeline. I don’t exactly trust any of the given alibis.”

“We’d still be without a motive though,” Tilly pointed out, joining him by the coat rack.

“Taking your lunch break an hour early, Miss Jackson?” Arthur teased as she arranged her little blue hat to hang over one eye.

“You don’t fool me.” Tilly switched the door sign from open to closed. “I know you’re heading out to find that gangster who got shot. If you think I’m gonna let you go anywhere near him and his friends after what happened, you have another thing coming.”

Five days had passed without incident and the longer the quiet drew on, the more anxious Arthur, and apparently Tilly, grew. He had a hard time believing Hosea was going to let the destruction of his operation go unanswered for and an even harder time believing Dutch wasn’t going to retaliate in some manner. Sadie was going to be alright but as for Javier, he didn’t have a clue. Dutch wasn’t on speaking terms with him. The eerie silence prompt Arthur to visit John and his family daily to keep an eye out. So far no harm had come their way, which left him optimistic about Javier’s well-being.

“You got more important things to worry ‘bout than my sorry hide.”

“Given the economy, I can’t think of anything more important than protecting my job.” She draped her matching coat over her shoulders. “Besides, where else am I going to find an employer who pays double the going rate for secretaries?”

“I’ll be _fine_. If Dutch or anyone else wanted me dead I’d already be six feet under.”

Tilly’s eyes narrowed. “Either I come or I’ll call Mr. Marston and let him know what you’re up to.”

Oh Christ. When he told John what had happened at Stillwater, he had to physically drag the half-naked, hungover fool back into his office to keep him from hunting down Dutch and his men himself.

“You’re a hard woman,” Arthur said dryly, holding the door open.

Tilly patted his chin as she walked by. “That’s where you’re wrong. This is me being soft.”

Based on a hunch, Arthur drove them to the Blackwater Hotel. To avoid attracting attention from the law, Arthur knew Dutch wouldn’t let his men get treated at a hospital. Like Hosea, he probably had a doctor on-call for house visits. The hotel clerk’s eyebrows vanished into his hairline when Arthur walked into the lobby with “his wife” on his arm, shooting him a most dirty look. Perhaps this was what made him sympathetic when Tilly pleaded to him that she and her husband were here to see their injured friend, but Javier had forgotten to tell them which room he was staying in.

“Who is it?” Bill barked out when Arthur knocked on the door of Room 403.

Tilly put on her sweetest voice. “Housekeeping!”

Bill grumbled something, then opened the door. When he saw them, he tried to swing it shut. Too bad Arthur’s foot got in the way.

“You got a lot of nerve showin’ up here, Morgan!”

“Calm down, Bill. We’re just here to see Javier and then we’ll be on our way.”

Stubborn as ever, he didn’t give an inch and held the door firm. “Maybe he don’t wanna see you! Ever think of that? You goddamn traitor.” He pointed a finger in Arthur’s face, which got promptly smacked away. “I saw you leave with them other folks.”

Tilly’s grip on the crook of his arm tightened. “Maybe Mr. Van der Linde shouldn’t extort someone who has ties to both sides. And from what I heard, you blew up the place and set off all the commotion so I don’t know how you expected Detective Morgan to get back to you safely.”

While Arthur stared down at her fondly, Bill opened and closed his mouth, then scowled when he couldn’t come up with a sufficient response. Glowering at the little woman who more than matched his mean stare, he stepped out into the hallway with his lips pursed like he had something nasty on the tip of his tongue.

“You best watch your mouth,” Arthur growled, positioning himself in front of Tilly and getting right into Bill’s face. “I ain’t afraid to leave here with an assault charge.”

Bill swallowed down whatever he had wanted to say, but still squared his shoulders. Clearly used to using his size to intimidate, his face soured further when Arthur didn’t back down. Fighting was the absolute last thing he wanted to do but his patience had been dangerously thin lately.

The door creaked open. “Hey Arthur.”

Disheveled and standing on one foot, Javier frowned up at him. His left thigh was thick with bandages, noticeable despite his loose clothing. He wasn’t used to seeing the normally immaculate man so downtrodden and borderline frumpy, though it was understandable. The doctor’s orders had likely been “bed rest and lots of it” which Javier probably viewed as more of a curse than anything. Arthur sure would.

“Glad to see you alive.”

“Are you?”

His expression didn’t change. It was only when he spotted Tilly that the old Javier came back. He immediately slipped his suspenders on, leaned against the door frame, and rolled up the one sleeve that had fallen down. “This is a nice surprise.” He flashed her a genuine smile. “Who might you be?”

“A concerned citizen.” Tilly raised an eyebrow. “You’re in pretty good spirits for a man who got shot.”

“How can I stay glum when my company has just vastly improved?” Javier beckoned them inside, ignoring Bill’s red-faced sputtering. “Make yourselves at home.”

Despite his displeasure over this turn of events, Bill helped Javier to the couch before plopping down next to him. Arms crossed and mouth grim, he resembled a scolded (and now grumpy) bulldog. Arthur swept off his hat and sat beside Tilly opposite them. Unlike Micah’s hotel room, this one looked lived in. Guitar resting against the couch. Coffee table covered with sheets of handwritten music and full ashtrays. Stacks of records by the phonograph. An assortment of mezcal and tequila straight from Mexico along the counter. Javier offered them a drink but both declined.

“You got expensive tastes,” Arthur commented, eyeing their price tags.

“Not me. Those are just, uh, get-well-soon gifts from a friend.” Javier shifted in his seat. “I’m thinking about giving them to Bill as a sort of peace offer. I’m not an ideal patient.”

“If you’d just stay in bed I wouldn’t have to be here.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Bill rolled his eyes at Javier’s mischievous smile, which he then directed at Arthur. “You know, I wasn’t expecting to see you.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “I’m touched.”

“Had I known you were alive and well, I wouldn’t have come.”

Arthur’s tone set Bill off. “Dutch is mad as hell. He thinks you squealed to Matthews.”

“What do you think?”

Bill frowned deeply, apparently not liking that question. “Well, I, uh, I didn’t mess up on the surveillance! Ain’t no one was supposed to be there.”

“If I had told Hosea, you’d both be dead and Stillwater wouldn’t be in shambles. Sounds like you boys got yourselves a rat.”

The room fell into an uneasy silence until Javier asked Tilly, “What do you make of all this?” Arthur caught the side glance he shared with Bill however. He’d wager they knew he was right but didn’t want to admit it.

“I think the world would be better off with you and your gang behind bars.”

“Oh, I like her.” Javier wagged a finger. “She doesn’t mince words, does she?” He tilted his head. “You don’t need to worry. Nothing is going to happen to Arthur. I’m the fool who turned my back on the enemy during a fight.”

Although he spoke plainly, the sarcasm from earlier notably absent, Arthur didn’t buy it. Call him a cynic but storms like this don’t blow over. They get worse.

Tilly chose not to respond, though hearing Arthur was safe made her tense shoulders ease. She nodded at the guitar. “You any good?”

“I’m alright.”

“You’re full of shit is what you are,” Bill snapped. “Javier’s great. He can sing too.”

She crossed her arms, refusing to be impressed. “What a shame you let your talent go to waste and choose to be a gangster instead.”

“It doesn’t go to waste. Music is very grounding for me.” Javier ran a hand through his unkempt hair. “This is gonna sound stupid but it keeps me sane and let’s me go back home, at least for a short while. Writing songs is an excellent distraction from, well, everything.”

Tilly looked somewhat taken aback. Her arms unfurled and she spoke in a gentler voice. “That’s not stupid. What do you write about?”

Javier looked her dead in the eye. “Beautiful women, mostly.”

That finally got a smile out of her. Arthur glanced back and forth between them uneasily. “Well!” He slapped his thighs and stood up abruptly. “We better get back to work. I’ll catch you both later then.”

Both Bill and Javier looked surprised by their sudden exit but didn’t stop them from leaving. Tilly however gave him a dark look the whole while but didn’t speak up until they were in the privacy of his car.

“You’re ridiculous, Arthur.”

“I ain’t the one making eyes at a gangster.”

“Some of us are capable of admiring an attractive man without falling head over heels and right into bed with him.”

Arthur couldn’t even respond. Face burning, he ducked and pressed his forehead to the steering wheel. Only to remember he was driving. He turned sharply to avoid hitting the curb to the sound of Tilly’s laughter.

\--

The nameless gentleman was certainly harder to find than Javier. He could just, you know, ask Dutch. But that’d be like shooting himself in the foot. Not willing to risk this potential lead, Arthur went about tracking him down the old fashioned way. Witnesses had described the man well enough that he was able to sketch a picture. Unfortunately, no one at the Blackwater Grand Theatre recalled seeing him perform there and none of the magicians in town could identify him. Likely he wasn’t a professional and only did magic for parlor tricks. Whoever he was, the man had kept his nose clean. At least in Blackwater. Sean couldn’t find anything on him at the police headquarters. He was planning to try his luck at Grimshaw’s but in the meantime, Arthur had a more pressing matter.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Abigail asked, her back to him she faced the stove.

Across from him at the kitchen table, John frantically shook his hands. Arthur quirked his brow as John mimed eating, then dragged a finger across his throat, before sticking out his tongue and closing his eyes for good measure. Jack, who was sitting on Arthur’s lap and drawing a picture, burst into giggles.

“You got something to say about my cooking, John?” Abigail snapped, somehow knowing what John was up to.

He put on an angelic face as she spun around. “No mam.”

“I’d love to stay,” Arthur replied, shooting John a look to behave. Food wasn’t something he was picky about. “There’s, uh, somethin’ I’ve been meaning to talk to you both about.”

John and Abigail shared a brief glance before he pulled out a chair for her. Arthur swallowed thickly. There was no easy way to say this—both would probably get upset—so he just blurted it out.

“You three would be safer outside of Blackwater.” He raised his hands quickly, halting their protests. “It’d only be for a little while. Go on a vacation or something. You have the money.”

Jack tilted his head back to look up at Arthur. “Would you come?”

“No, I’d have to stay here,” Arthur said in a gentle voice. “But I’d be right here waiting when you get back.”

This placated Jack enough that his pout vanished and he resumed working on his sketch. Too bad his parents weren’t as easily swayed. Brows bent and arms crossed, John fell into an angry silence while Abigail’s face remained pinched.

“We can’t leave,” she said. “We have Beecher’s to consider—”

“Uncle can watch the place.” John and Abigail stared at him. “Or a more competent employee! I don’t know. What I do know that none of you are safe as long as you’re here.”

“No,” John snapped harshly, hands curling into fists on the table. “I don’t want to leave.”

“This ain’t about what _you_ want. This is about doing what’s right for your family.”

John eyed Jack for a moment, then abruptly pushed himself away from the table, storming off somewhere in the house. Arthur closed his eyes. It wasn’t like he wanted to be apart from John. Hell, he didn’t want to be apart from Abigail or Jack neither. Both had been nothing but a joy to be around ever since he met them.

“What if just you and Jack go? Would he agree to that?”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t.” She raised a finger so he wouldn’t interrupt. “You say it’d be for a short while but you don’t know that. We’ve created a home here and that’s something I never thought I’d ever have. I will not be scared away from the life we’ve worked so hard to build.”

Arthur wanted to argue that their safety was more important than a home. You can rebuild a life but not get it back once lost. They weren’t just risking themselves but their son as well. Arthur couldn’t understand it. A runaway train was hurling towards them and they were content to just stand still on the tracks. Why stare it down rather than move aside? But then Jack peeked up at him, waving his picture excitedly, and all the harsh things he wanted to say died in his throat.

“It’s for you,” Jack said proudly, hopping down from his lap. “You like it?”

It was a picture of all four of them holding hands at the park they had visited earlier in the week.

“I love it, Jack.” Arthur ruffled the boy’s dark hair. “Thank you.”

“Can we play hide-and-seek now?”

Frustrated with the conversation and unable to ever say no to Jack, Arthur agreed. He waited for the boy to close his eyes. Abigail, now back at the stove, began counting down from twenty for him. In his experience, children preferred hiding but Jack seemed to get a kick out of seeking Arthur. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that there were only so many places a large man like himself could hide in their apartment.

Scrambling to find a place, Arthur hurried into Jack’s room, dodging the soldier figurines scattered all over the floor. Packed with more stuffed animals than a toy store, the unblinking stares of alligators, dinosaurs, dogs, and all sorts of animals greeted him from every angle. Cheerful colors. Stacks of children’s books. Model airplanes that hung from the ceiling which had stars painted on it. The room had everything a little boy could want and screamed of parents trying to give their child everything they didn’t have growing up.

“Ready or not, here I come!” Jack called out.

Arthur slipped into the closet. He was about to shut the door when John shoved it open unceremoniously, kicking it closed behind him. While there was a lot more space than in the last closet they had shared, John acted like there wasn’t and pressed himself against Arthur. It was pitch-black and the two fumbled around—John trying to grasp him, Arthur trying to push him away—smacking into some of the clothes and knocking the hangers off the racks.

“You gone and lost your mind?” Arthur whispered in frustration.

“Would you stay still for a goddamn minute?” John hissed, gripping onto Arthur’s biceps.

“Is now _really_ the time for this horseshit? You want your son to find us?”

“Just shut up and let me talk!” Arthur exhaled loudly through his nose but didn’t push him away. “I ain’t leaving you.”

“No shit, Marston. You got me pinned to a wall and—”

“I mean, I’m not leaving Blackwater without you. But if you come with us, name the place and we’ll all go there.”

He blinked several times, trying to digest what had been said. “I can’t leave.”

John’s hands drifted up to hold Arthur’s face. “Sure you can! I know you wanna solve the case but Heidi would understand if—”

“Hosea’s dying.” John’s hands fell away. “I don’t know how long he’s got left. Then there’s Dutch—”

It sounded like John stepped away for a moment, before spinning back around. “Fuck Dutch,” he sneered. “You owe him nothing.”

He couldn’t see John’s face but he could feel his sorrow when he rested his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around John; heart pounding so loud in his ears he almost didn’t hear little feet dash into the room. Arthur and John broke apart as the door opened.

Jack pointed at them in delight. “Found you!”

\--

Rush hour crowds and traffic had always left Arthur sour, longing for the open fields of his youth. Yet seeing the hoards shrink at crosswalks and cars whipping instead of trudging by brought him little joy. The light changed and the small group surged forward across the street. Workers didn’t vanish so much as disperse. Some hit the pavement bright and early in search of employment. Any sort would do. Others resigned themselves to cutting in on pigeons’ turf, loitering on stoops or sidewalks until speakeasies reopened and they could cluster inside. Poor bastards. When the jobs would come back was anyone’s guess.

“Arthur!” Someone called out from behind. “Wait for us!”

Mary-Beth and Kieran, who were holding hands, ran together to catch up with him. In spite of himself, Arthur found himself smiling at the young, happy couple. Hellos and good mornings were exchanged, only to be interrupted by obnoxious honking. Arthur was about to give the driver a piece of his mind when he noticed the light had turned green and they were in the middle of the road. Oops.

“You taggin’ along to distract her at work again?” Arthur teased after they hurried over to the safety of the sidewalk.

“No, no! Her boss threw me out the last time I tried that.” Kieran rubbed the back of his neck. “Just seeing her off, is all.”

“Poor Kieran’s been so busy lately that we had to settle on a breakfast date just to see each other.”

“Busy, huh?” Arthur murmured, watching Kieran’s ears turn red.

Great. Hosea _was_ up to something. Whereas Dutch came up with over-the-top schemes and left the details up to luck and for his men to sort out, Hosea wasn’t one for grandeur. He erred on the side of practicality and usually liked to test his plans out. If he had to guess, Arthur would place his chips on Hosea taking out one of Dutch’s operations. Maybe two to make up for Owanjila. Whatever it was, he wasn’t looking forward to its inevitable consequences.

Before he got a chance to question him, Mary-Beth asked, “Are you going to Grimshaw’s party?”

As one of the most successful women in the city—even more so since the crash—but scorned by others because of her profession, Madam Grimshaw threw a lavish party each year to rub her wealth in everyone’s faces.

He scrunched his nose. “Nah, that sort of thing ain’t for me. A brute’s still a brute even in a suit.”

“Oh, but you must come! Everyone is going to be there.” A sly grin crept across her face. “You can bring your special someone.”

“You’re making me want to go even less.”

Mary-Beth pushed his arm playfully. “Oh, that’s right. It’s a big secret.” She turned to Kieran. “Would you believe it? Even Tilly won’t tell me who it is.”

“That’s ‘cause Tilly is a good girl who minds her business…unlike some people.”

“Is it a married woman? Perhaps a senator’s wife? Are you two planning to run away together but can’t because she doesn’t want the scandal to harm her husband’s career?”

Kieran laughed at Arthur’s bewildered expression. “I think she’s been reading too many romances she adores.”

Arthur heard the screech of tires before he saw the black car. It whipped around the corner. Kieran shoved both Arthur and Mary-Beth away from him. A masked man stuck his tommy gun out the window. Its incessant firing drowned out all other sound. The bullets blasted holes through Kieran, staining the concrete wall behind him as his body jerked. Arthur tackled Mary-Beth to the sidewalk just as it swept over their heads. A familiar burning tore up his left arm. He tucked her face into his chest but Mary-Beth had seen enough and continued to scream even after the car sped off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Tugs collar* Well, um, at least poor Kieran died instantly? ...I'll show myself out. *Flees*
> 
> Notes:  
\- No Man's Land was a term popularized during the First World War to describe the [horrific battleground between two opposing trenches.](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/legends-what-actually-lived-no-mans-land-between-world-war-i-trenches-180952513/)  
\- The [Lindy Hop was a dance](https://youtu.be/e62p_K4-Cvc) first developed in Harlem in 1928 and grew in popularity throughout the swing era of the 1930s-1940s.
> 
> If you're reading this, I hope you and your family stay safe and healthy during this time. Take care everyone and thank you for your continued support. <3


	19. Our Invisible Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many come to visit an increasingly exasperated Arthur at the hospital. When he finally gets to go home, John manages to get him to open up about the past.

Arthur liked hospitals about as much as people like getting hit in the face with a two-by-four. Between the doctors fussing over him and the way death lingered despite the oppressive stench of antiseptics, he had been eyeing the exit since entering. It was like being back in those damn field hospitals. Laying among men whose lungs had burned inside their chests from mustard gas. Missing limbs and blackened feet rotting away from gangrene. Decay hung so heavy in the air the breeze blowing in those open tents couldn’t chase it away. Then, as with now, he was left with the same question. Why did he survive while better men than him died?

“Are you in any pain?” Mary-Beth sniffed, not removing her face from the crook of his neck. “I can go find a nurse.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” he replied softly, keeping his good arm wrapped firmly around her as they sat together on the bed. “I’m fine.”

“You’d say that no matter how poorly you were feeling.” Tilly had folded her arms over her chest, fingers like claws as she leaned next to the window. “You don’t let others worry about you.”

Sure, the bullet took out a chunk of skin but it didn’t hit an artery or the bone. A graze wasn’t worth all this fuss. Not the private room he had been given nor the painkiller that dulled everything except his memory. Arthur kept thinking about Kieran. Kept mulling over what he should have done. Paid closer attention to their surroundings. Warned him to keep low for a while longer. Shoot out the tires of that damn car. It was a futile sort of thinking but Arthur couldn’t help himself. Few things hurt like seeing those he cared for suffer and he desperately wished he could take away Mary-Beth’s pain. But there was nothing to be done. Kieran was dead.

“Those monsters,” Mary-Beth spat. “I know Kieran did wrong but—but he was so sweet and gentle. And he never lied to me, you know? Kieran never tried to hide who he was. He never wanted this sort of life but he was trying to make the best of it. All he wanted was a place to belong.”

She straightened slightly. Her pin curls hung limply around her freckled face; skin now red and eyes swollen from crying on and off for the better part of the day. Mary-Beth wiped them roughly as if trying to brush away the tears before they fell. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Make it stop, Arthur. Or find some way out. I know you’re just as in it as Kieran is—was—and I swear if I gotta go to your funeral next—”

He pulled her into a proper hug, ignoring the sharp pang in his arm. Tilly’s face screwed up but she hid this by rummaging through her purse, keys jiggling when she plucked them out. Arthur had never been good at comforting people, never been good at telling them lies they wanted to hear. Truth was he doubted he could stop the violence. At times it felt like he was trying to hold back the sea with his arms. For years he had tried to get out but had faired no better than a prisoner chained by his ankles. No matter how much of a fight he put up he always got dragged back. Maybe there was no out. Not for him, at least.

When they left, Arthur found himself wishing the painkillers would knock him out again. Or that the doctors would discharge him already. Everything was too damn white and too damn quiet. With the gunshots still ringing in his head, he missed the dark and wanted to crawl back in there and hide from all the thoughts he’d rather not think. Arthur closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep, keeping them shut even when the door creaked open. A floral scent hit his nose. Maybe a nurse had come to check on him?

“Wake up, you son of a bitch.”

Mismatched clothes haphazardly thrown on and chest heaving from barely contained rage, John had decided to let his inner disaster shine today. No comb had graced his hair. No razor had scraped his jaw. Hat missing, tie slack, and wild eyes with a sort of bruised look about them—John must’ve flown out of bed upon hearing the news. Right on cue the butterflies began fluttering and Arthur snapped his mouth shut like one of them was liable to fly out. To make matters worse, he was holding a bouquet. Roses. From an actual florist too, not the cheap stuff sold out of the hospital pharmacy. No one had ever gotten him _flowers_ before. Such unusual colors too. Reds and oranges and yellows; he held the morning sky in his hands. Did John pick them out himself?

He dragged a chair over, letting it scrape obnoxiously loud against the floor, before taking Arthur’s hand into his. “I could kill you right now.”

“Wish you’d shut up and get on with it, Marston.”

“Don’t tempt me.” His voice was more strained than usual. Like a chain-smoker who had just finished his last pack and was already begging for more. “What the hell were you thinking being seen with someone on Dutch’s target list?”

“Oh, I dunno. I was thinking that I was headin’ to work like I always do and happened to run into two folks I know. Do I look like some sorta fortune teller to you?” Arthur met John’s hard stare and it was like looking in a mirror. False anger had always been a poor mask, but he still clung to it. “What’s the big idea going out and getting me flowers?”

He snatched Arthur’s flattened pillow and fluffed it up before thrusting it between his back and the headboard once more. “I ain’t ever had a boyfriend before so hell if I know what to buy when the dumbass lands himself in the goddamn hospital!”

Heat crept up from his chest to his face. It didn’t help that John was still holding his hand. “This—This is how rumors start, you idiot.”

“You’re the one dating me so who’s the bigger idiot, huh? I don’t know what I was thinking. I should’ve just stuck to my usual and gotten you some booze. If you think they’re dumb I can toss ‘em.”

“No!” He blinked in confusion and Arthur cleared his throat. “Uh, I mean. Don’t bother. Seein’ as you went to the trouble and all.”

John ran his thumb gently across Arthur’s fingers before pressing a warm and wet kiss against his knuckles. “Ain’t no trouble at all.” It was so tender and sweet that Arthur almost wished John would go back to his obnoxious flirting. That he was used to. That he could handle.

“Wish you didn’t get yourself so worked up over nothing.”

The angry scowl came back but only for a moment, petering out into a quiet, “You wanna talk about what happened?” The words were drenched with hesitation like he knew Arthur would decline and when he did, John tried something different. “Alright, tell me about the case. You haven’t said much lately.”

“Sorry, it’s just, there’s not much to tell,” Arthur murmured, staring at their intertwined hands. “I was supposed to spend today tracking down this magician that was seen with Dutch on the Serendipity.”

“Oh, you mean Trelawny?” Arthur’s head snapped up so fast that it was a wonder his neck didn’t crack. “He’s come into Beecher’s a few times. Has a bad habit of distracting my dancers with his magic tricks.” Some detective he was. Why didn’t he think to ask John earlier? He had been on that ferry too. “We can look for him together.”

Arthur was about to shoot that idea down when the door swung open. Thinking maybe it was another friend, he looked over John’s shoulder with a pleasant expression. It vanished the instant Milton and Ross entered. Thanks to his bandages and the ridiculous hospital gown they had forced him to wear, Arthur wasn’t the least bit intimidating right now and opted for mockery over threats.

“I’m surprised you boys are here. Figured you’d use this opportunity to break into my office again.” He narrowed his eyes. “Get out.”

When neither moved John shot to his feet and his chair fell over with a loud clatter. “You deaf? Get outta here!”

“There’s no need for hostility. Surely even you can understand the importance of gathering as much information as possible while the event is still fresh.” Milton had the audacity to smile at them. “For the Blackwater Police to apprehend and ensure those behind the shooting face the full extent of the law, we require further cooperation on your part, Mr. Morgan.”

“However, only two people may visit at a time,” Ross added, lip curling as John balled his fists. “We wouldn’t want to violate hospital policy now would we, Mr. Marston?”

“I ain’t going nowhere,” John snarled, plopping down and positioning himself in front of Arthur like he was afraid they would take him away. “They’ll have to goddamn drag me out.”

Arthur sighed softly, not wanting John to leave but knowing fully well his temper always got the better of him. As much as he would like to see John rearrange their mugs, those two weren’t worth an assault charge. “Go take a walk.” John spun around, ready to argue. “I ain’t asking.”

Betrayal and fear flickered across his face. Arthur winced and mouthed a silent plea. For once, just listen. Although the fight went out of him, none of the venom did. “If you morons try anything, I’ll put you both in a hospital bed. Then you can talk to Arthur all you want.” He bared his teeth. “If I haven’t broken your jaw, that is.”

John let the door slam behind him.

“Quite the guard dog.” Milton commented dryly. “You oughta be careful. Sometimes even the loyal of beasts can turn feral.”

“Oh, shut up,” Arthur snapped. “I spoke with Officer Sterling earlier. You got questions? Go ask him.”

“We’re not interested in the how, Mr. Morgan,” Ross countered, “but the why. Your answers were noticeably lacking in that.”

“I don’t work for free. You want help? Pay me. Or better yet, why don’t you both kiss my ass?” Arthur began to turn over. “This gown makes it easy. Which cheek you want?”

“I know demonstrating some semblance of maturity is difficult for you but _do_ try.” Worn face now pink and gaze darkening as Arthur snickered, Milton could have doubled for a turkey vulture. “I wonder if your defensiveness is due to you having something to hide?”

Arthur was no carcass and wouldn’t let himself be picked over so easily. “Hide? Here I was thinking I’ve been nothing but upfront about how much I can’t stand either of you.”

Ross rolled his eyes. “We know Mr. Duffy’s demise has something to do with the ongoing feud between Mr. Matthews and Mr. Van der Linde. He was a member of the Matthews Outfit and the O’Driscolls before that.”

“This is all news to me.” Arthur shrugged. “I barely knew the guy.”

“Yet earlier you stated he pushed you out of the line of fire.” Ross crossed his arms. “Now why would he do that if you two barely knew each other?”

Arthur was quiet for a long moment. “I wish I knew.” The truth of this made him wince. Rather than think any longer on it, he sneered, “I also wish I knew why _you’re_ involved in the investigation, Ross. You don’t work in homicide.”

“It’s a shame you’re too stupid to understand that working with us would be in your best interest. Your immunity won’t last forever. What will you do when you no longer have Mr. Matthews or Mr. Van der Linde to protect you?” Ross eyed the bouquet in disgust. “How will you protect Mr. Marston?”

“I’m sure I’ll find someway to continue to outsmart you both. Ain’t that hard.”

Despite his nonchalance, the air became heavy and hard to breathe as the weight of his words settled upon him. Christ alive. Him and John were the worst kept secret in town at this point. Suspicions were nothing without evidence though. If they had any, they would’ve blackmailed him already. Arthur kept still, refusing to give the kneejerk reaction they wanted, even when Ross got in his face.

“What the fuck do ya think you’re doing?”

A red-faced Sean, full of enough hot air to send a balloon straight past the stratosphere, stormed in with an equally upset Albert by his side. Both should definitely be at work right now. Just how many people did Tilly call on his behalf? Might as well take the door off its hinges at this point.

Stunned by the intrusion, Milton scrambled for a response. “How—How dare you speak to your superior in such a manner, Officer MacGuire. I’ll have you written up for this.”

“Speaking of writing, how’s this for a headline? ‘Senior Officers Harass Gunshot Victim.’” Albert swept his hand through the air as he spoke. “I’m sure our readers will be as disgusted as I am that the Deputy Chief of Police would condone one of his men, a high-ranking inspector nonetheless, behaving in such a manner.”

“S’not a good look. What’ll the Chief think?”

“Probably fire them both. That’d be just what you two deserve!”

Their eyes darted back and forth between Sean and Albert like Milton and Ross couldn’t decide who they hated more. His friends made sure to stand before him; a makeshift barrier with crossed arms and expressions grim as the grave. As much as Arthur liked to suggest otherwise, Milton and Ross weren’t completely stupid and decided to cut their losses for the day.

“A word of advice, MacGuire.” Milton’s calculating look made Arthur’s blood run cold. “You might want to reconsider your friendship with Mr. Morgan. It wouldn’t do your career good to be associated with this degenerate.”

“Dunno ‘bout that. You two have faired well despite the company _you_ keep. Why don’t ya take that advice and—” Albert grabbed Sean’s mouth before he could finish, using his foot to kick the door closed after Milton stormed out.

Sean broke free then casually gestured at Arthur. “So you’re not dead, huh?”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He rose slowly, heart heavy as they sat on either side of him. “If I had the energy and a spare arm, I’d throttle you both. Now they know we’re friends—”

“Aww, he’s making death threats.” Sean ruffled his hair, bouncing off the bed when Arthur took a lazy swipe at him. “Our boy’s gonna be alright.”

“You can’t worry about every little thing, Arthur. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”

“Well, I’m in the right place for it.”

Albert’s face fell. “I’m glad to see your brush with death hasn’t harmed your sense of humor.”

“Brush with death,” Arthur grumbled under his breath. “Christ’s sakes. I got shot! The way everyone’s acting you’d think it was something serious.”

“Alright, instead of your health why don’t we talk about who gave you that beautiful bouquet?”

“How ‘bout we _don’t_?”

“Fuck, if I gave Karen flowers like that she’d drop down on one knee and propose to me!” Sean wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Guess you finally pulled that stick outta your ass so he could—”

“I’d be careful about finishin’ that sentence,” he growled. “Unless you wanna wind up in the morgue.”

Albert and Sean hastily muffled their laughter to avoid getting kicked out by an orderly for being too loud, but the shade of red Arthur’s cheeks turned didn’t make quieting down easy. Rubbing his hands over his heated face and partially lamenting that he hadn’t died on the operating table, Arthur changed the subject. “What’s going on out there? Have they found the car?”

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Albert chided, “not acting like some sort of bedside sleuth.”

\--

Although the shooting had the papers—particularly the Tribune since a certain reporter had secured an interview one of the victims—flying out of the hands of newsboys, police had made little headway. They fished out the car from Flat Iron Lake but they might as well have left it. No evidence to be found. No one to trace it back to. It had been reported as stolen that morning. A masked driver and shooter rendered eyewitnesses useless. Didn’t take a genius to figure out that Dutch or Colm or whoever the hell was behind Kieran’s death was going to get away with it. For now.

“Play nice, John.” He pulled his hand away when his impatient lover reached back and tugged his hair hard.

They really shouldn’t be doing this. The doctors told him to keep his arm still. But Arthur didn’t want to think about anything other than the feeling of John’s body pressed against his. Arthur had wrapped himself around John. A firm hand splayed on his chest. The other between his legs. He snickered softly as his feather-light strokes left John so frustrated he was trying to rut into the fickle hand. In truth, this thank you did have some retaliation sprinkled in. The bastard had been mollycoddling him all day. Paying off Arthur’s medical bills. Making him dinner. Not letting him lift a finger. All done with a teasing grin and repeating the doctor’s orders like a hapless parrot. He was trying to piss Arthur off and doing a first-rate job of it.

“Never.”

He shifted up and arched his back to grind against Arthur. He let out a breathy groan into John’s hair, now in his face, hips rocking forward instinctively. Between the smooth skin of his ass rubbing against his neglected cock, slick and painfully rigid, and the smell of the bouquet in the heated air, Arthur could only meet the incessant and deliberate writhing for so long before the heat pooling in his stomach grew too dangerously hot.

He grabbed those slim hips, but John, forever difficult, wormed his way free to lay on his back. John puckered his lips stupidly, expecting Arthur to kiss him. Which he did immediately—how could he not—before gripping his shaft. He liked how John gasped against his smirking lips, the weight of him in his hand, the feeling of the coarse hair at the base. He could feel every twitch, every throb, every breath John punched out as Arthur pumped him vigorously. His breathing soon swelled and thighs began to tremble, but the closer he got to more John writhed with discontent. Rather than ask for what he wanted, John knocked the hand away and turned to hitch his arm and leg over Arthur’s thigh so he could rut against him.

“_Jesus Christ_, John.”

He almost whimpered like a dying animal as their leaking cocks rubbed together. It was almost too much. Arthur held John tight, giving himself leverage to thrust against him. Foreheads pressed together, the two panted open-mouthed against each other. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down Arthur’s spine despite the waves of heat rolling off of them. When Arthur slipped his hand down to stroke them together, John's muscles went rigid. He managed to cover his mouth before crying out; body shuddering as he spilled onto Arthur and himself. Watching him come undone in his arms made Arthur settle onto his back, breaths like hard whistling through his gritted teeth as he palmed himself roughly. Despite being limp as a rag doll, John still somehow reached down, massaging and tugging at Arthur’s balls to help him along, murmuring filthy things in his ear. His release came to the sound of raspy laughter.

They lay there, still except for their panting chests and the trails of sweat rolling down their skin, in no hurry to untangle themselves despite the mess. A smoke would be good right now but damned if he was going to move anytime soon. Today had worn him down to the bone and sleep prodded from all corners of his vision, demanding to be let in. Not yet. Arthur wanted to just lay there with John and not think about anything. His lover had other plans though.

“C’mere,” he slurred, reaching out in vain as John stumbled off to the bathroom, dodging their discarded clothes along the way. “Get your skinny ass back here.”

The faucet turned on. “Gonna clean us up, dumbass.”

“You? Clean?” Arthur stirred on the bed. “This is the last bit of coddling I’m gonna tolerate. I ain’t a child.”

“Then quit acting like one!”

Brain still lost in a fog, Arthur's witty retort was a simple grunt. When John returned, he sat beside him and wiped Arthur’s chest and stomach with a damp cloth. He was real slow about it, gentle too, and Arthur had to look away. Despite this, he could feel the burn of John's gaze running zigzags, tracing invisible lines between the scars that decorated his chest.

“Mostly shrapnel.” He grabbed the curious hand before John could caress any of them. Hypocritical? Sure. Arthur loved to run his hands along the many scars that adorned John, but wouldn't return the favor. “A couple are from knife fights, I think. Been so long I can’t remember.”

“You’re a tough bastard, Arthur Morgan.”

“Not really. I’ve gone soft.” He laughed bitterly. “The war made me hate violence even though it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Arthur raised his brows at this but kept quiet as John laid down and draped an arm over his chest. “That why you didn’t stay with Hosea?”

“Kinda. He tried to go straight, really, but all the money to be made from prohibition was too much of a draw. I couldn’t go back to that sort of life though. I was tired of causin’ innocent folks to suffer. Especially after the war. And, well, truth is I liked being on the right side of the law, y’know? Helping people instead of hurting them.” Arthur also didn’t want to risk his family’s safety neither, but he still wasn’t ready to have that conversation. “They gave me a fucking Medal of Honor for—”

“Single-handedly capturing a machine gun nest.” John spoke as if this was something to be proud of. “If I had a machine gun firing at me I wouldn’t be running at it, that’s for sure.”

“I snuck up from behind, you idiot.” Arthur pressed his lips against John’s forehead. “Been thinking a lot ‘bout the war lately. The hospital today. Goddamn Stillwater. Shit. It was like being back there. I thought I was over it.”

“Sometimes things stay with you no matter how much you wanna forget ‘em.”

John’s arm retracted to rub his neck. Arthur wondered what things haunted him, what kept him up at night. They were two-of-a-kind. Too many battle scars. Too many stories they couldn’t bring themselves to share. Truth was he got that medal because it was easy run under fire when you didn’t care whether you lived or died.

He placed John’s hand back on his chest, looking up at his roses once more. “Why those colors?”

“Why not, Sunshine?”

Arthur would have bristled at this nickname if John hadn’t said it in such a distracted voice. He tilted his head up, face suddenly serious. “You don’t gotta answer if you don’t wanna. I was just wondering why you picked Hosea over Dutch?”

“I didn’t.”

\-- May 1916 --

This was suicide. Arthur knew it. Bessie knew it. Yet here they were, running along the top of the evening train bound for Leavenworth full of inmates, military cargo, and federal officers who would be more than happy to shoot them. They didn’t talk about that though as they jumped from boxcar to boxcar. The stakes hung high over their heads like a guillotine and neither wanted to think about the blade coming loose. At least the hollering, the gunfire, and the glass shattering below told them the inmates they had set free were holding up their end of the bargain.

He ran ahead of Bessie and dropped down, startling the engineer. The man didn’t have a chance to scream. Arthur slammed his fist into his jaw, knocking his head back. He shook out his throbbing knuckles as his victim slumped over. He smiled. That was easy.

Too bad when he reached for the brakes, cool metal pressed against the nape of his neck.

“I don’t know what your game is, son,” the guard sneered, “but this ends now—”

Bessie landed on top of the man, sending his pistol flying out the window and his face right into the floor. Arthur was on him. He grabbed the guard by the scruff of his uniform jacket and tossed him right off the train. Unphased, Bessie knelt down to tie up the unconscious engineer.

“Y’know I’m starting to wonder if maybe you missed out on an illustrious career as an outlaw.”

Gone were the long ringlets and frilly dresses, in their place was a shaggy men’s wig and bulky clothing. If by some miracle their scheme to bust Hosea out of the federal prison worked, under no circumstances did Arthur want the authorities to clue in that his wife was involved. As for himself, his black bandana would suffice. Everyone already knew Arthur Morgan was a no-good outlaw.

“Maybe.” Bessie grabbed the brake herself. “If this wasn’t the most reprehensible thing that I’ve ever done, this would almost be fun.”

As she brought the train to a halt, one of the inmates made it to the front. Arthur almost laughed in disbelief that the first part of their ridiculous plan had worked. Two people, one of which who wasn’t experienced in this sort of nonsense, couldn’t stop a prison train full of guards. But add five angry prisoners to the mix? Now that was different. Stealing the train was the easy part though. They still had to bust Hosea out of the federal prison. The ace up their sleeve was that the Disciplinary Barracks four miles north appeared to be on the train’s list of stops. The cargo contained a multitude of weaponry—some of which Arthur had never seen before.

While the inmates vacated and fled into the night, Arthur and Bessie carefully stepped over the bodies strewn across the floor, some with faces smashed in and others oozing from their chest, as they worked together to lift the long and heavy Vickers machine gun. They set the steel cylinder barrel upon a tripod before the boxcar doors. Something—possibly doubt, probably guilt—burned in his gut as he fed the ammunition into it. Cartridges just over three-inches long. Behind him, Bessie stabbed a knife into one of the train seats.

“Thank heavens I’m no sharpshooter,” she said, pushing some of the cotton into her ears and handing him the rest. “I would hate to actually kill someone with that.”

An American flag hung limply at the top of Leavenworth’s dome, the rest of it long, greyish-white stab of a building that seemed entirely out of place in the middle of the flat Kansas countryside. Everything else, save for the smokestack and watchtower, was hidden behind towering brick walls that seemed to stretch forever. As it grew larger and larger on the rapidly darkening horizon, doubt started to creep in. God, he wished Dutch was here leading the charge. Not him. An imposter at best.

The groom had barely finished kissing his bride when Bureau of Investigation descended like downpour upon the small wedding, washing away all the joy of the day in a single blow. Dutch had to physically drag Arthur and Bessie by their arms until both came to their senses and broke out into a sprint while Hosea bought them time to escape. Newspapers later claimed Hosea fought back but was quickly overwhelmed. Arthur knew better. He had no intention of winning.

Soon. Now wasn’t the right time. It wasn’t safe. Not yet. Arthur and Bessie had begged Dutch to rescue Hosea, but he kept putting it off. Found guilty of everything from grand larceny to murder, when it came out Hosea would be hanged Arthur and Bessie couldn’t wait anymore. Arthur figured Dutch wasn’t thinking straight. Losing Annabelle, then Hosea? No wonder he had lost his nerve. Once Hosea was back, the old Dutch would return and everything would be alright.

At least that’s what Arthur told himself as the iron gates opened to let the train through.

“Rise n’ shine, partner.” Arthur drew back the hammer of his revolver, pressing it to the groggy engineer’s temple where gray hairs were beginning to emerge. The older man glared at him with all the hatred he could muster, unable to do anything but writhe in vain and spill curses into his gag as Bessie brought the train to a stop.

Three prison guards came to assist with the transportation of the inmates. Arthur surprised them by stepping out with his hostage. Their hands went north, jaws south.

“Drop your weapons and turn around,” Arthur ordered. “On your knees!”

Down each one went when Bessie smashed the butt of her repeater into their skulls. The engineer dragged his heels, literally, and tried to put up as much of a fuss as he could as they dashed towards the station. Quickly losing patience as he eyed the high walls and towers—so many places to be sniped from—Arthur smacked him upside the head. They had to work fast. He kicked the door open and the two of them dispatched the few guards inside in the same manner as before.

“You’re gonna call the main line.” Arthur shoved the engineer towards a telephone and yanked off his gag. “Tell ‘em what’s going on and have them bring Hosea Matthews to us.”

Minutes later Arthur stood halfway between the station and the train, biting his cheek as two guards brought Hosea out, holding onto his arms like they didn’t think he could stand upright without them. The chains around his wrists and ankles clinked as he moved slowly. Stay calm. Stay composed. Ignore the snipers steadily popping up along the walls. Ignore the unhealthy pallor of Hosea’s skin and how loose that stained and stripped uniform hung from him.

“You outta your mind, boy?” One of the guards called out as he bent down to unlock the ankle restraints. “You, this sickly son of a bitch, and that feller hiding on that train ain’t getting out of here alive.”

Not as fast or witty as his mentors, Arthur stumbled over his response.

Then Hosea winked at him. That old twinkle shining bright as ever. He was perfectly fine.

“Probably not, but we’re gonna try!”

What would Dutch do if he was here? Make a spectacle.

Bessie threw open the boxcar doors at the same time Hosea wrapped his handcuffs around the neck of the guard at his feet. Arthur shot the guard to his left. The Vickers began spraying bullets back and forth. Tearing doors in half. Crumbling bricks along building corners. Shooting sparks upon hitting metal. She wasn’t trying to hit anything in particular but the erratic firing had everyone diving to the ground as it swept over their heads.

A brave few shot at them, hitting their hostage instead. Arthur let go and lunged, grabbing Hosea’s arm. They made a mad half-run, half-crawl for the train, no one able to get close thanks to the machine gun. They dove into the locomotive and Arthur started her up right away. Steam blew from the sides as the wheels began to turn. Bessie kept firing. The rapid gunfire left his brain and bones rattled despite the cotton. Hosea plugged his ears with his fingers, crouching down on the floor with a bewildered expression.

The train drove right through the prison gates. Sparks shot out as the iron was ripped apart. Sirens swept up, replacing the gunfire. In the distance they could see cop cars and horses coming after them, but it would be in vain. They couldn’t catch a train at full speed. A breathless Bessie joined them upfront and Hosea made a sour face upon seeing her disguise.

“Darling, you look like the sort of man who’d cheat at poker and then accuse everyone else at the table of fixing the cards!”

She affectionately ran her hand along his patchy beard. “We haven’t seen each other in over two months and _that’s_ what you have to say to me? Arthur, turn this train around.”

When Hosea burst into laughter, Arthur’s heart twisted inside his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed that sound.

\--

Arthur should have known something was up when Hosea didn’t mention Dutch until he was standing before the man at their tiny camp tucked away on the other side of the Missouri. Truthfully, he hadn’t given it much thought; too wrapped up in his fear that Dutch would be furious with him. Having spent the last week envisioning a happy reunion, full of laughter and booze and drunken singing and storytelling like every other celebration they had shared, Arthur wasn’t prepared for silence. It was the sort of quiet that made the gentle chirp of crickets seem like screaming, spreading outwards and suffocating Arthur out in the open.

“Sweetheart,” Bessie whispered, grasping his hands and trying to pull Arthur away. “You must be tired. How about—”

“Arthur’s not going anywhere,” Dutch said, possibly far harsher than intended for he forced his tone to lighten. “Not until he explains just what the hell he was thinking.”

“Don’t you dare get on Arthur’s case about this,” Hosea snapped, stepping in front of Dutch. “I had a lot of time to think in jail. Too much, in fact. Tell me, why is it that the cops only wanted me? They saw you there. If they could have stopped you if they wanted.”

“I don’t know, Hosea. Why didn’t you take some of the _time_ you had in prison to _ask_ them?”

“Didn’t need to. You bought your freedom at my expense.”

Dutch flinched like Hosea had slapped him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me loud and clear, Dutch. You sent them after me. We were in a new town for the wedding. No one else, except you three, knew my location.”

“Hosea,” Arthur pleaded, grabbing his shoulder. “Be reasonable. This is Dutch we’re talking about. He would never do something like that.”

“I was _going_ to come for you, Hosea. I was just waiting for the right time.” Dutch’s voice, full of raw emotion, cracked at the end and he turned away in frustration. He began to get louder. “I was _trying_ to protect your wife and Arthur. Now they’ll come for all of us, Hosea. Is that what you want?”

Unmoved, Hosea went right after him when he tried to walk away. “And when was the right time? When Bessie left me for good?” He pointed his finger in Dutch’s face. “You’ve been acting real strange ever since I told you we were moving on.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve known you were going to leave since you proposed to her.”

“Yeah, but that was before that awful mess with Annabelle—”

“Don’t you dare bring her into this!”

His voice softened. “—I’m just trying to understand, Dutch. Help me understand. Why now? Why throw everything we had down the drain? What did I do?”

“You’re losing your head, Hosea. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hosea sighed, looking more dejected than angry now. “Come on, Arthur.”

Fury flashed across Dutch’s face like lightning. “He’s not going anywhere!”

Hosea raised his head slowly, knowingly, as if some sort of realization dawned upon him. Arthur remained confused as ever, trying his hardest to stay composed even though his increasingly frantic breathing was liable to give him away. That bitter cold February day came back to him and the silent, seething hatred that rolled off of Dutch upon revealing Hosea’s casual request for Arthur to join them in starting a new life. All of this was his fault. He should have never said anything.

“You wanna leave? Fine! But you’re not taking Arthur from me as well.”

“I don’t have to. After what you’ve done, he’ll come of his own volition.”

This was tossed out carelessly but Dutch was too enraged to notice the casualness of it, to notice that Arthur hadn’t moved from his side. When Hosea flicked his head, beckoning Arthur to go back to Bessie—who was smartly staying far from the two warring men—his hand went to his holster. This was more an instinctual than anything. Angry? Grab your gun. Fearful? Grab your gun. It was a life or death reaction that all of them could do in their sleep.

Unfortunately, Arthur only remembered this after he had thrown himself in front of Hosea. “Don’t!”

Dutch hadn’t drawn but his hand flew away from his gun regardless. Arthur didn’t move though, continuing to shield Hosea. His eyes had welled up, staring at Dutch in disbelief—who matched his shock.

“Son, I wasn’t—I would never—”

The swell of emotion on Dutch’s face churned into something insidious, eyes flashing wide then narrowing slowly at Arthur. Dutch stared him down like he was capable of seeing right through him. Maybe he could. Arthur felt brittle, like a porcelain doll with flecked with holes and missing pieces. Instead tearing Arthur apart, he turned away and achieved the same end. Dutch walked straight out of camp. Was up and on his horse before anyone could stop him. Arthur ran after Dutch, calling out for him to come back.

Dutch never returned for his belongings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aside from Visiting Hours, the Rescue Hosea scene was semi-inspired by [a real prison break from Leavenworth](https://www.fbi.gov/news/stories/the-five-decade-fugitive-chase%0Ahttps://storage.googleapis.com/hippostcard/p/66c51451955c4e5b2c6e7ddd673a61b7.jpg) in 1910 where convicts stole a cargo train and busted out. As for the Vickers, the US military tested [a variety of machine guns](http://www.sadefensejournal.com/wp/u-s-colt-vickers-model-of-1915/) ahead of their entry into the First World War.
> 
> I know this is a canon-divergent AU but I really wanted to try to keep the characters as close to their canon counterparts as possible, especially the ones who I made darker. With Dutch, I needed something that would split up the curious couple and their unruly son, but not be cartoonishly evil. Hopefully, I succeeded. I'm still iffy on whether flashbacks really work in this fic.
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your ongoing support. Stay safe everyone! <3


	20. Grift and Glam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After playing a game of cat and mouse with Trelawny, Arthur and John both wind up at Madam Grimshaw's fancy party expecting the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderfully talented [yodeldjo](https://twitter.com/yodeldjo) completely made my month by drawing beautiful artwork of scenes from _Blackwater._ Check them out! Their artwork is lovely.  
• [John Smoking](https://twitter.com/yodeldjo/status/1234957227368308737)  
• ["Whatever you say, old man."](https://twitter.com/yodeldjo/status/1235285407065083904)  
• [John's Wandering Hands](https://twitter.com/yodeldjo/status/1237870148993708035)  
• ["I just...draw what I see."](https://twitter.com/yodeldjo/status/1238180693504667648)

The big top tent sat on the skyline the way all eyesores do: unpleasantly. Jarring yellows and blues ran down the towering canvas, its shadow stretching far in the setting sun. Almost as far as the scent of popcorn caught up in the dust blowing among all the cars scattered across the parched field. Nickels weighed down the pockets of everyone meandering about; not the droves of yesteryear when times were good but still a respectable sum. Near everyone, himself included, were awash in a sea of beige and whites. The unofficial uniform for summer. John however had opted for grays right down to the band of his straw hat. His gold octagonal sunglasses were the only splash of color; frames tinted a violent hue. His treacherous eyes drifted over to John more than he’d like to admit.

“Look.” Arthur nodded at the brightly-painted clowns handing out balloons by the Tilt-A-Whirl. “Now you can finally join your brethren.”

“Nah, there aren’t any monkeys here. I checked yesterday when we brought Jack.”

The image of poor Abigail dealing with not one but two overexcited Marstons at the circus had Arthur rubbing a hand over his mouth to suppress a smile. He was still mad at John for that stunt he pulled on the Ferris wheel. As their cart approached the highest point, John tried to slip a hand into Arthur’s pants and shove his tongue down his throat. Not expecting this, Arthur reacted poorly and the cart swung so wildly that it was a wonder neither fell to their deaths.

A puff of white cotton candy clouded his vision. “Want some?”

“I’m too old for that shit.” He pushed John’s arm away. “Quit tryin’ to advertise that we’re on a date.”

“You’re about as fun as a kick in the teeth, you know that?” John licked his sugar-coated lips. “Don’t be so boring.”

“Compared to you, everyone’s boring.”

Somehow John managed to choke on the sugary floss. Arthur was about to pat his back when he coughed out, “Shit, I think that’s the first compliment you’ve ever given me. Gotta warn a man before you go tossin’ out things like that.”

Arthur knocked John’s hat askew. “Believe me, I won’t make _that_ mistake again.”

Funerals shouldn’t be followed up with anything other than a single malt scotch but when John showed up, full of smiles and promises to make the evening worth his while, Arthur begrudgingly caved. (Never mind that he practically leapt from his chair upon hearing the familiar knock at the door). Kieran had been buried that afternoon in the New Blackwater Cemetery. Wretched place. Wedged between two main roads, the noise of the traffic was liable to wake up the dead sooner or later. Between Mary-Beth’s watery, broken smile and everyone inquiring about his arm, Arthur had half wanted to crawl into the ground himself.

Past the flashing midway sign, John stopped before a small crowd. All eyes were on a peculiar fellow, overdressed for the weather and occasion, who was in the midst of showing everyone just how empty his white-gloved hands were. He cupped the two together, had the nearest child blow on them, and then open his hands to reveal two swallowtail butterflies. They fluttered away while the audience tossed coins into the top hat by his feet. His dark mustache curled with delight.

“Trelawny’s not listed as one of the entertainers,” John explained, tossing the now barren paper cone in the trash. “He moves around so the circus officials won’t catch him tryin’ to make a quick buck.”

“Wait. You knew he was here the whole time?”

John didn’t look guilty in the slightest. “I wanted to spend time with Arthur, not Detective Morgan.”

“You’re a real piece of work!”

“I love when you get all hot and bothered,” he whispered, snapping one of Arthur’s suspender straps and pouting when his hand was smacked away. “Aw, c’mon Sunshine. Don’t be like that.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” Trelawny twirled his hand to give his short bow a bit of flourish. “For my next trick, I—” When his stare met theirs, he sank down ever so slowly. “—Ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately due to circumstances beyond my control, the show must end early.”

No sooner than when he finished speaking did he grab his hat and flee to the sound of jeers. After swearing violently, Arthur and John began shoving their way after him. No easy feat. People clustered like grapes before tented booths that ran long and parallel throughout the midway. A pickpocket’s dream but a nightmare for Arthur. Too bad slapping himself wouldn’t bring about a swift end. Sword swallowers. Belly dancers. Fire eaters. Dwarfs who vanished in vibrant puffs of smoke. Hucksters trying to reel suckers in. Too much and too many; everything whirled around like an out-of-control carousel. Worse yet, that familiar tune was in the air.

Yells chased them out of the midway but there was little time for relief now that they were out in the open. “Split up!” Arthur shouted.

Still not keen on any sort of movement, his arm throbbed. Arthur pushed through the pain. He couldn’t let the magician pull a disappearing act. Making tracks behind the rides was easy with no one in his way. When he slinked back into the fray, he came up alongside a misshapen, wooden funhouse. Bizarre music played while animatronic animals and people popped out of windows. John was easy to spot. Right on Trelawny’s heel until the man skirted past the funhouse line.

“Marston! Don’t go—” The fool followed him inside. “—in there.”

In through the exit he went, hoping to crash into Trelawny if he tried to escape. The house wasn’t as advertised unless breaking an ankle was all the rage these days. Arthur nearly tripped over the sections of the floor that moved up and down and again in the horizontal revolving cylinder. He paused to catch his breath, resting against a large sign warning guests not to run. Frightened shrieks got him moving again. Youngsters were streaming out of the Hall of Mirrors.

“If you’re gonna kill a man,” John growled, “at least use a proper weapon!”

Upon entering he was surrounded by reflections. His own ugly mug. John with his teeth bared. A disturbingly calm Trelawny holding a derringer. Christ. Only John would antagonize an armed man. Arthur raised his hand, fingertips brushing along the cool glass as he began to navigate through the confusing maze. All of them eyed the mirrors carefully, trying to distinguish between truth and illusion.

“Put your heat away,” Arthur murmured, trying to keep his nerves in check. Panicking wouldn’t protect John. “We just wanna talk.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.” His voice was surprisingly jovial given the circumstances. “I know perfectly well why you and this hot-headed Neanderthal are here.”

“Listen asshole,” John growled. “If you’re scared about Dutch, this ain’t gonna get back to him. Not from us and not from you. Unless you’re dying to piss him off.”

“My dear boy, everything always gets back to Mr. Van der Linde and he is one bridge I’d very much like not to burn.” His fingers skimmed down a mirror and he reversed his course. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Marston.”

“You worry about yourself, partner.”

He had a few more choice words to accompany that but Arthur wasn’t listening. Too focused on finding one or the other. He kept to the right, usually the trick to escaping any maze. Unfortunately, Trelawny stilled. With him now lying in wait, outsmarting him even more necessary. Getting shot again was not on his to-do list. How to make him move was the question. Meanwhile John was getting more and more pissed off with every mirror he walked into.

“Marston! Stay still!”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Nearby.”

“Real helpful, Morgan.”

Surprisingly John listened, leaning against a mirror with his arms crossed. Trelawny fidgeted with his little gun. Getting antsy? No. His face was marred with indecision. He didn’t want to hurt them. Trelawny just didn’t want to get caught. Arthur froze, fairly certain he was close. Any sudden movement might give away his position but he had to make him react. Out came his pistol. He pointed it at one of the many Trelawnys. After a startled gasp, the magician fired and shattered the mirror before him. Location revealed, Arthur surged forward and grabbed Trelawny from behind, causing him to drop his weapon.

“Turn me loose, damn you!”

John was just around the corner. He kicked the derringer away, looking far too smug for someone who was one step away from a hole in his chest.

\--

“You expect me to believe the word of a stranger?”

Grip firm around Trelawny’s arm despite the handcuffs, Arthur had managed to sneak them out before the police rolled in. He led them beyond the parking lot, down a gentle slope where the grass still grew and curious eyes couldn’t spot them. It wasn’t quiet, still too close to the circus, but at least there was space to think.

“You hear that, Marston? A grifter is accusin’ _me_ of being untrustworthy.” His lips curled back into an unkind grin. “No, I don’t expect your trust but if you wanna keep up your charade as a simple family man you’ll do well to tell me what you remember about the night of December 31st.” Arthur clamped a hand on Trelawny’s shoulder, sitting him down. “When this blows up, and it will, it’s gonna take down everyone. I’ll see to that.”

“I’m sure you will.” Trelawny fidgeted with the cuffs like there was a chance he could magically break free. “But I take umbrage to that accusation. I had nothing to do with that ghastly affair.”

“Enough of this.” John grabbed two fistfuls of Trelawny’s crimson vest and yanked him back to his feet. “You better start talking ‘cause I’m all outta patience!”

Any spark of hope within died when Trelawny saw Arthur pulled out a pack of smokes and took his sweet time lighting up. He sighed, then spoke calmly, as if he wasn’t gambling with John Marston’s temper.

“Mrs. T and I arrived just after ten. My intention was to have a pleasant night with my wife. You can imagine my horror when I discovered a number of my business associates were also aboard. Most of my time was spent strategically avoiding them.”

John let go. “I saw you with Dutch.”

“Naturally. Even you must know that Mr. Van der Linde isn’t one to be ignored. Thankfully he waited until my wife was out of earshot for our sole conversation that evening: a discussion about a gold mining operation that ultimately didn’t pan out.”

Guess Dutch was still running cons in addition to his protection rackets and moonshine rigs. “You speak with Mr. Bell or Miss McCourt?”

“Hardly. When we last spoke, Miss McCourt was preparing to audition for a Hollywood picture. She was very excited to inform me that she had indeed gotten the role. I asked Mr. Bell if he would be accompanying her out west. He told me to mind my own business…in less pleasant terms. Mr. Bell normally steers clear of me for reasons I cannot be bothered to speculate.”

Could this really be as simple as a textbook case of a jilted boyfriend murdering his girlfriend before she could break up with him? Had Dutch discovered the murder and simply used it to his advantage?

“How’d they seem?”

“If her moving was a point of contention, they didn’t let it show. They were the same as always. Bell was capricious with everyone except her. Miss McCourt was a cheerful chatterbox.” Trelawny wiggled a finger by his neck. “Kept playing with her jewelry.”

The necklace with the heart-shaped pendant he found when searching through Micah’s clothes in Saint Denis came back to him. “What’d it look like?”

“It was so long ago, I can’t—” Arthur flipped to the sketch in his journal. As he did a little purple envelope bearing Mary-Beth’s name fell out. “—Oh. Yes, that’s it.”

According to the coroner’s report, the necklace was not found on her person at the time of the autopsy. John’s brow lifted at Arthur but he gave nothing in return. This didn’t exactly place the murder weapon in Micah’s hand so much as push it within reach. Some murderers were known to take a trophy from their victims but that didn’t fit with the sort of killer Micah was. Murder was a means to an end for him, rather than something to dwell on.

“I knew you’d be going,” John muttered, returning the envelope with a frown.

“Well, of course! Everyone who is anyone is going to be there.” Trelawny laughed genuinely. “Fancy that! We could’ve met at Grimshaw’s party organically instead of engaging in this foolishness.”

“Don’t kid yourself, I ain’t anyone. I got no intention of using that invitation.” Arthur replied dryly, eyeing John’s tiny smile. “I’m not cut out for that sort of nonsense and I hate crowds.”

“Ah, I am honored then that you would venture into a busy circus to find me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “How’d you describe Miss McCourt around Mr. Van der Linde?”

Trelawny hesitated. “Friendly, if a bit formal. To the best of my knowledge they were acquaintances but, uh, he spoke to her a lot that evening.”

“About?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

John started forward but Trelawny raised his hands protectively. “He was asking about you, Detective.” Arthur’s pencil stilled. “You seem to be a favorite subject of his.”

He didn’t know what to make of that. “When was the last time you saw all three before midnight?”

“As I said I was trying to avoid them. Must’ve been around eleven. I spent the last of 1930 dancing with my wife. Too bad Mr. Marston here had been so determined to spend the party at the bottom of a bottle. He could attest to my whereabouts.”

“Don’t remind me,” John grunted. “I hate that I can’t remember much. I keep thinkin’ that maybe I could’ve did something if I hadn’t been so drunk.”

“There was little you could’ve done even if sober,” Arthur said kindly.

“I do recall Bell was rather distraught when she was discovered dead. Van der Linde, who was less shaken, had to hold him back from punching that Milton fellow when homicide showed up.”

“That’s a shame,” Arthur murmured, which got a smirk out of Trelawny.

While John worked on removing the handcuffs, Arthur reviewed his notes and scrambled new thoughts in along the margins. As he did, Trelawny’s words about the party resurfaced. _Everyone_ _was going to be there_. Dutch. Micah. Maybe Hosea. If he made an appearance, something was bound to happen. Karen would be there too and therefore Sean. God knows who else. If trouble got kicked up, Arthur didn’t want anyone he cared about or innocent folk getting caught in the crosshairs.

\--

Lavish displays of wealth seldom impressed him. Mansions were a waste of space. Especially when you consider all the folks sleeping in flophouses and the streets. You might want to take his opinion with a whole heaping of salt though on account of him being as common as cigarettes. Hell, when Albert told him Lakeside Manor was modeled after English country homes on one of their visits—prostitutes were often an invaluable resource for leads into any sort of case—he assumed that just meant big, brown, and sprawling. It was an architectural middle finger to anyone whoever looked down on Susan Grimshaw. Like Hosea, everyone knew what she was but bribes kept the law out of her business—and what a business to be in. No matter the economy, sex sells.

“Well, look at you!” Trelawny commented, tipping his top hat as he passed by Arthur who was enjoying the night air out on the terrace. “From penny to twenty-dollar gold piece!”

“Thanks,” Arthur muttered, adjusting his cufflinks for the fifth time that evening. He wanted to tell him that an ass was still an ass even if you dressed him up to look like a pony. At least he didn’t stand out. All the men were dressed relatively the same. Black tuxedos off-set by white shirts, vests, and butterfly ties. The only chance for individuality came with the boutonniere, though most went with a red or white carnation. Arthur went with orange rose. Call him a sentimentalist.

“Mr. Morgan!” Susan marched over to Arthur with either a backhand or lecture in mind. Graying hair pulled back and maroon dress swishing loudly with every step, it seemed she paid little heed to the latest fashions despite dressing her girls in accordance. “I didn’t get a chance to speak with you earlier. What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t realize I wasn’t welcome no more.”

“Don’t be stupid. It’s unbecoming.” Susan crossed her arms, eyeing him like a schoolmarm does a charming but misbehaving child. Just like she did when she was still Dutch’s woman. “I didn’t invite you for the same reason you ain’t been around in months. There’s bad blood circulating and I don’t need any of it spilled on my floor.”

Susan never minded his snooping until it affected her business so Arthur had held off, relying on Karen to be his ear to the ground whenever Dutch and Micah visited. Sadly, they abstained from discussing business while there.

“Don’t you worry!” Sean said gallantly, coming up from behind and linking his arm with Arthur’s. Karen did the same on his right. “I’ll keep ol’ Morgan here on the straight and narrow! There won’t be a lick o’ trouble from him. Not on Sean MacGuire’s watch!”

“You wouldn’t know the straight and narrow if someone drew you a line on the ground,” Arthur muttered.

Susan stepped aside. “You best behave yourselves or I’ll throw you all out myself!”

The back doors led them once more into the ballroom. Crystal chandeliers. High ceilings. Roman columns. Gold trimmings. Meant to be a showstopper, it was just short of gaudy. The dining tables had been placed around the exterior to make way for dancing. Women in long, sleek gowns that draped over their bodies glided around the dance floor in a lively foxtrot, held close by their men. It was almost hypnotic watching the crowd ebb and flow with the music of the thirteen-man jazz orchestra. Or it would have been if his eyes didn’t immediately curse him, drifting up to where Dutch, no better than a damned gargoyle, loomed from the second floor. He raised his glass of brandy at him, smirk full of malice.

“I still say it was a mistake to come here.”

“Why you gotta paint everything so black?” Karen plucked a champagne flute off a waiter’s tray and pressed it into Arthur’s hand. “Who cares? Let him stare!”

“He’s allergic to happiness, that’s his problem,” Sean replied, grinning when Arthur handed him the glass. Or perhaps at the beautiful women who just walked by. “Forget about that pompous shite and take in the scenery.”

“Scenery, huh?” Karen placed her hands on her hips. “Why do I get the feelin’ you ain’t talkin’ about the wallpaper?”

“None of the dames here compare to you, love. I mean look at these rich fuckers! They wouldn’t know a good time if it bit ‘em in the arse! Not like you.”

While the two of them squabbled, Arthur scanned the room. Familiar faces were everywhere. A couple of boys from the clubhouse. Bill was speaking with Dutch while Molly looked bored enough to throw herself from the balcony. Javier, stylish cane in hand, was whispering something to Tilly. His roaming gaze swept over all the colorful dresses and in the same way light always finds the dark, landed right on John. Hair slicked back and brooding over a dry martini, John looked like the devil was missing one of his own. He had no right looking so fine with a scowl that deep. By all accounts he wasn’t having a good evening. He wasn’t happy to see Arthur there and yet worst, Susan had seated him and Abigail at Dutch’s table for dinner.

“Scarface!” Oh shit. Sean’s jaw hung ajar as he clutched Arthur’s arm, shaking it with excitement. Meanwhile Karen blinked in confusion. “That’s the feller from Beecher’s, ain’t it? Oh my _God_. You’re a regular homewrecker, Arthur! He’s got a wife and child!”

Arthur was about to tell off Sean when he spotted Micah with Abigail. Trapped by the refreshment table, Abigail was eyeing the punch bowl like she was contemplating drowning him in it. If John saw them together, he’d cut out the thinking part and just go for it. He brushed off Sean and went over.

“I dunno why you waste your time with that queer.” Micah sneered. “He can’t possibly satisfy a fine woman like you. Not the way I could.”

“You couldn’t satisfy a woman if you had an instruction manual.” Abigail ripped her arm free. “Go fling yourself out a window! Nothing would satisfy me more than seein’ you with a broken neck.”

“Why leave it up to chance?” Arthur asked casually, standing behind Micah and causing him to jump. “Just say the word, Miss Roberts, and I’ll snap it for you.”

“Well, well. Look who’s out and about.” He licked his lips, eyes flickering back and forth like a snake trying to figure out which leg to bite. “Last I heard you was all laid up after a little scratch.”

Arthur didn’t bother to give Micah the reaction he was so desperate for. Unfortunately, John did. “You have five seconds to get the hell out of my sight!”

“Quiet, Johnny. The grown-ups are talking.” Micah scattered nosy onlookers with a dark look, before observing Arthur through thin slits. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here. This is your sort of place. Lots of young men to prey upon.”

Both Arthur and Abigail grabbed John’s arms, dragging him away before he could throttle Micah. He watched them go with the sort of smile than leaves a man cold before vanishing behind all the couples swaying around them as they went deeper and deeper into the dance floor.

“Really, John?” Abigail snapped. “Murdering Micah in front of a whole room of people is stupid even by your standards.”

He roughly adjusted his jacket. “No judge would throw the book at me for putting that piece of shit in the ground.”

“Marston, you need to cool off. Why don’t you go dance or something?”

Arthur stepped back, gesturing for John to take Abigail into his arms. A sly glint hit his eye like moonlight off a blade, sharp and full of trouble. John reached for her, then abruptly turned, grasped his hand, slipped an arm around him, and led Arthur away with a shit-eating grin.

“Hey!” Abigail called out.

So shocked by this turn of events, it took him a solid moment to come to his senses. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Folks call this dancing,” John replied, face full of his usual mischievousness as he made Arthur sway along to the soft clarinet solo.

Arthur knew he was beet-red from the way John was biting his lip and how hot the ballroom had suddenly become. “Why am I the girl?”

“You didn’t have the balls to ask me to dance. I’ve been waiting all evening.”

Let the floor open up beneath him. No, maybe one of those chandeliers could fall on his head instead. Anything to get him out of here--and quick! Trapped near the center of the dance floor, there was no quick getaway. He’d have to flee through the whole crowd. Arthur exhaled loudly through his nose. “You want to get us arrested?”

“Two men dancing ain’t illegal unless you’re thinking about making things—” John pulled Arthur close so their bodies were flush. “—interesting.”

“Marston, if you think I won’t kick your ass right here, right now, you’re sorely mistaken.”

John cackled and shifted back, but only just, keeping a firm hand on Arthur’s back. He made the mistake of looking around, noticing stares from every angle. Some curious. Some scandalized. Sean was wiggling those damn eyebrows of his while Abigail, already with a new partner, gave him what he supposed was an encouraging smile. It was bizarre to not be the one in control. Moving backwards through flashes of colors and midnight blacks as John maneuvered them through the crowd to what sounded like a Cab Calloway tune_._ Sure, Arthur could break away if he wanted. It was just that, well, John looked so damned happy. Arthur hadn’t seen a proper smile on his face all night and he didn’t have it in him to rob him of that. So he swallowed down his protests, swallowed down his urge to flee, and tried to breathe._  
_

“Well, would you look at that,” John teased. “You once told me you were too old for dancing.”

“You have a habit of making a liar out of me.”

Suddenly John twirled him around. It threw him off and when he came back around, grasping onto that firm shoulder again to stabilize himself, Arthur almost snapped at him. It was only then though that he noticed John’s boutonniere. An orange rose as well.

God, they really were two-of-a-kind: a pair of fools.

“Why do you always have to be the goddamn knight-in-shining-armor?” John asked when Arthur's startled gaze lifted to meet his.

Despite his heart pounding in his ears, he still managed to toss out, “Considering how many times I’ve had to save a certain dumbass-in-distress over the last few months, it’s second nature by now.”

John wasn’t thrown off. “That’s why you’re here, ain’t it? To keep your friends safe in case anything happens with Dutch?”

“That why you didn’t tell me that you’d be here?”

“Yes.” John’s grip on him tightened. “I don’t want him or Micah anywhere near you.”

Both lingered on the other far longer than what was decent. Was this how the sun felt whenever its rays got pulled towards dark surfaces? Arthur was wholly incapable of directing his heated gaze elsewhere. The voice whispering that they shouldn't be doing this, not somewhere so public, was growing softer. Neither were perfect dancers. Far from it. They fell in and out of time with the music. Bumped knees and toes. Snickering stupidly whenever they messed up. The warmth of his body. The way he looked at him. John made Arthur forget that it had been years since he had last danced with anyone. That he only had a bare-bones idea as to what he was doing thanks to Hosea and Bessie teaching him ahead of his wedding. John even made him forget there were other people in the room, allowing Arthur to loosen up and return the delighted smile.

Trust Dutch to go and ruin everything.

John made a strangled sound and bumped into Arthur. “Who does that son of a bitch think he is?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Dutch standing before a sour-looking Abigail, hand extended. Despite her expression, she accepted. Arthur immediately took over their dance, pulling John close and not letting him escape until he danced them right out the ballroom. He struggled the whole way and even after Arthur had relinquished his grip on everything but his arm, dragging him down the hallway towards the front doors.

“Let go! I’m gonna kick his ass so hard he won’t be able to shit for a week!”

“Would you listen to yourself?” Thankfully no one was outside on the front terrace to hear that mouth of his. Arthur pinned John to the brick wall. “Calm the hell down!”

“What if he hurts her? What if—”

“They’re in a ballroom full of people.” Arthur grabbed his face, forcing John’s wild eyes to settle on him. “He’s not going to do anything.”

“You should’ve heard him at dinner.” John struggled under his grip. “Making all these underhanded comments.”

“He’s trying to provoke you.”

“Well, he’s doing a damn good job of it!”

Unable to think of any other way to distract him, Arthur kissed John. If it had been the other way around, Arthur would’ve easily pushed John aside and stormed off to deal with whatever had upset him. But John reacted like a man starved of affection, sighing against his lips before his nimble fingers went to Arthur’s bowtie. Arthur let John touch wherever he pleased. Let him press feverish kisses along his neck once the skin was exposed. Let him part his lips with gentle bites and a coaxing tongue that sought out his own. Sometimes he had a hard time believing John was his. That out of all the people John could have, he only had eyes for him. _Him_. Arthur wasn’t used to being anyone’s first choice. Hell, his darling Eliza only agreed to marry him because it was the right thing to do for Isaac. Love came later.

“What are you doing?” John said breathlessly before nipping at his jaw.

“Being impulsive. You’re a bad influence on me,” Arthur murmured, chasing after his lips.

So caught up in the moment, in the taste of John and the delicious sounds he was making, Arthur barely heard someone clear their throat behind him. John instantly froze, eyes wide with horror. Feeling near murderous and therefore at risk of breaking his promise to Grimshaw, Arthur glanced over his shoulder with a nasty threat ready on his tongue. It came out as a squeak.

Hosea was standing there. Dressed to the nines. Looking in dire need of a stiff drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Trelawny in opposition to Arthur as opposed to being friendly was...interesting. I hope it still worked. And yes, the dancing scene is me being a self-indulgent hack but I also hope it put a smile on my people's faces since things aren't so great right now. If you're reading this, I hope you and your family are doing well. Stay safe everyone and thank you so much for your continued support of this story. <3


	21. Pair of Snakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch and Hosea have nasty and public confrontation that leaves Arthur reeling. Things only get worse when some long overdue retaliation unfolds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely and talented [nerdytf84fan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdytf84fan) (AO3) / [snikt-snack](https://snikt-snack.tumblr.com/) (Tumblr) drew a [fantastic illustration of Private Detective Arthur Morgan.](https://snikt-snack.tumblr.com/post/615790497288650752/gosh-i-have-been-reading-gaslightwestern-s-noir) Check it out along with their excellent writing and other RDR artwork as well!

Fools rack up humiliations like felons do crimes and heaven help if one was both. Skinny, sixteen, and desperate to please, Arthur let Dutch and Hosea dress him as a woman for a garden party to scope out a mansion they planned to rob. He ended up tripping on his frilly pink disaster of a dress and tumbled down the stairs, landing with his unladylike legs (“I told you he should’ve wore stockings!”) and large feet (“no hiding those!”) in the air. Dutch and Hosea almost died rescuing him; hard to shoot straight when blinded by tears of laughter. Then there was that time his sweetheart, Mary, had brought him to her house to meet her family and friends. Only for her father to show up with a wanted poster and the sheriff. The look on her face and all those judgemental stares as he was arrested still made him squirm years and years later.

Yet as unfortunate as those memories were, they had nothing on his present predicament.

Intertwined and disheveled. Panting heavily from swollen lips. Necks marred from the attention lavished upon them. Both were too flustered to form a coherent sentence yet Arthur and John stared at one another like they expected the other to pull a half-assed lie out of nowhere.

“You know,” Hosea said dryly, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’d say you two were caught red-handed if I could actually see your hands, but they seem to be lost somewhere under fabric.”

Cheeks burning wildly, Arthur scrambled to untangle himself from John. “I—I can explain!”

“I don’t rightly know how else I’m supposed to interpret your tongue down Mr. Marston’s mouth.”

“He was checking for cavities,” John quipped, quickly buttoning up his white vest. Meanwhile Arthur wondered if the fall from the cliff near Lakeside Manor be enough to put him out of his misery. “It’s a new type of oral examination.”

His hands shot up in surrender before Arthur could throttle him; laughter strained like it had traveled a long way to get here. He couldn’t be embarrassed, could he? No. John Marston was shameless.

“You’re both grown men—” Hosea eyed Arthur, “—in theory. You should know better than to fool around somewhere so open. A pair of pent-up jackrabbits would have more discretion than you two.”

“It’s my fault,” John blurted out. “He was trying to keep me from tearing Dutch’s head off.”

“Ah, too bad he stopped you. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.” Hosea watched closely as John knocked aside Arthur’s fumbling fingers so he could redo his bowtie for him. His own hands weren’t steady neither but he got the job done. Was he nervous? “Just what are your intentions for my son, Mr. Marston?”

There was a twinge of humor in his voice. Maybe this situation could be salvaged.

“Entirely dishonorable, sir.”

“Marston!”

“I don’t want to lie to him!”

“He has no intentions,” Arthur grumbled, fiddling with his cufflinks yet again. “This fool lives by the seat of his pants and doesn’t plan further ahead than five minutes.”

Shaking his head, Hosea tucked the handkerchief he had been half coughing, half laughing into back into his pocket. “Mr. Marston, I’d like to speak with Arthur alone for a moment.”

Oh God. While John shuffled inside with all the boldness of a dog with its tail between its legs, Arthur just stood there feeling far too sober for any of this. Awaiting a lecture from the man he loathed to disappoint, a curtain hook may as well have yanked him by the neck twenty years into the past. Yet no speech came when the door was shut. Top hat in hand, Hosea stared off into the darkness as if the waves below or the stars above had answers if one listened hard enough.

“Miss Roberts knows,” Arthur mumbled pre-emptively. “They’re raising Jack together but they ain’t together.”

Hosea nodded absentmindedly. Shit. Something else wrong. Hesitation stretched the silence and Arthur swore he could hear his own heartbeat.

“What do you know about John Marston?”

“Enough,” Arthur said, quick and harsh. Not liking where this was going in the slightest. Neither did Hosea for he didn’t dignify his response with anything other than a crooked brow. “What? You want the sordid details of his past?”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing as very little of him exists before 1928.”

Arthur did a double-take. “What?”

“I always look into the backgrounds of my business partners. He was born in Chicago and landed in an orphanage at the age of eight. After he ran away, there’s no trace of him until he showed up in Blackwater.” Hosea flicked his chin at John who was not-so-subtly spying on them through the window. “Does that young man look like a boy who stayed out of trouble?”

“No,” Arthur admitted quietly but indignation made his usual gruffness come right back. “All that means is whatever trouble he got into, it weren’t enough to land him in jail or the papers. That’s more than I can say for the both of us. John don’t pry into my past and I extend him the same courtesy. I ain’t even told him about Eliza or Isaac yet.” He crossed his arms tight over his chest. “Why work with him if you’re suspicious?”

“Take it easy, son.” He turned his head to cough, before placing a withered but firm hand on Arthur’s forearm. “When we first met, he struck me as a fellow trying to turn his life around. I’m glad I took a chance on him. Mr. Marston has never given me any cause for concern.” Hosea smiled softly. “I’m just a nosy old man, that’s all. One that doesn’t want to see you get hurt.”

He took a step back, spine straightening from an unknown realization. Arthur was hit with one of his own. Hosea was here and so was Dutch. That could only spell trouble. The kind of trouble that could make a roughneck stuff himself into a tuxedo in the hopes of squashing it before all hell broke loose.

“So that’s how he’s been doing it. Dutch has been using Mr. Marston to manipulate you into doing what he wants.”

He closed his eyes, cursing himself. “Whatever you’re going to do, don’t. Call it off.”

“Not this time.”

John threw aside the curtain

Both entered the manor briskly, sweeping past the butler waiting to take his hat and coat and a confused John who called out for them. Armed with the how, Arthur had just accidentally supplied Hosea with the why. Sometimes he amazed himself with his ability to make things worse without even trying.

The black smoke that had oozed out of Owanjila and Stillwater had come now to suffocate them all. Arthur never placed much stock in revenge. A fool’s game even when a man was owed a great deal of it. However, most folks thumbed their noses at revenge until an injustice had been done onto them. That usually left them singing a decidedly darker tune. In the past, Hosea had been able to resist the temptation but there was only so many times you could poke a slumbering beast before it took a swipe at you.

Arthur was the line Hosea drew in the sand. Dutch had not only stepped over it but hopped, skipped, and soared far beyond that boundary. There was a hardness to his face, strengthening with every step towards the ballroom. Lines no longer worn from time but rather carved into his skin. It was the same look he had at the hospital; the one that came out at Kieran’s funeral when he thought no one was looking. Pleading wouldn’t dissuade him nor would pointing out that retaliation was exactly what Dutch wanted. Nothing would stop whatever was about to happen—though Susan Grimshaw seemed determined to try.

“Oh no!” Hands on her hips, Susan blocked them through sheer will alone. The double doors were wide enough to step around her but Hosea knew better. “My house. My rules. I don’t want no trouble. If you two are going to kill each other, do it outside and preferably off my property.”

“Murder with an audience isn’t my style, Susan. I just want a few words with Dutch and then I’ll leave.”

Never one to be cowed, Susan raised her chin defiantly. Few stood up to men like Hosea Matthews. Even Milton and Ross crept around in the shadows rather than face him head-on. Even if they weren’t old friends, Arthur had a feeling Susan would still stand her ground.

“I’m alone and unarmed.” He opened his sleek tuxedo jacket, showing off the crimson satin finish and lack of weapons. “How much trouble could I stir up?”

“You may be but Dutch isn’t. I’m trying to save you from walking into a lion’s den, you old fool!”

“In all the years we’ve known each other, Dutch has never hurt me.” His stare flickered over to Arthur. “Not directly, at least. He won’t start tonight. I know you’re still fond of him but I’m doing you a favor. You and your girls are not going to want him here shortly.”

That did it. From warpath to weary, her arms unfurled but fists remained clenched. “You two are like a pair of snakes. Circling around and around, gettin’ more and more tangled up. Each time you strike, you hurt yourselves and one day it’ll be a fatal blow.” She looked at Arthur and John, who was now by his side. “And may God help those who get caught up in the mess.”

Susan reversed course. She stormed back into the ballroom and snapped her fingers at the wait staff to help round up their coworkers and the girls, wanting to send them out into the hall. Hosea entered the crowd; thick and buzzing and unaware of the storm brewing around them. Arthur made to follow but John stepped in front of him.

“Forget about them. You heard what she said!”

“Never you mind about that.” Arthur grasped John’s arms gently in what was supposed to be a gesture of comfort. He saw right through it and jerked back as if slapped. “Go find Abigail and then get outta here, alright? If you see Miss Jackson, tell her to scram too.”

Arthur left before John could protest. He didn’t know what was going to happen but the less people around, the better. At least Karen and Sean were on their way out; both red-faced but still sober enough to shoot him a questioning look that went unanswered.

He couldn’t see Hosea but Dutch sure had. Dancing couples were parted right down the middle as he cut across the room with Bill and Micah on either side. He followed them out onto the back terrace where the wind was picking up and Hosea was admiring the night sky. Not as crowded out here but there were still clusters pretending to laugh at each other’s jokes and others out for a romantic stroll with cocktails in hand. Far too public and fancy an arena for this sort of a confrontation. Everyone was dressed in their finest for what would amount to no better than some brawl in the dirt. Then again, maybe that was Hosea’s game. Scores of witnesses make triggers harder to pull.

“Hosea!” Dutch greeted with all the warmth of a corpse, coming forward with his arms wide. “I’ve heard of being fashionably late but you have to admit several hours is a bit tardy.” He placed a heavy hand on Arthur’s shoulder, giving it a paternal squeeze. “Son, how are you? I must admit, I’m a bit hurt that you didn’t come over to say hello. But I suppose you were rather _busy_ earlier. You missed out on Arthur making a spectacle of himself.”

“Oh, I got an eyeful earlier.” Arthur grimaced at Hosea’s smirk. He was never going to live that down, was he? “As for myself, I got caught up with work and lost track of time. You know how it is.”

“Better watch yourself, old man. Don’t wanna work so hard you put yourself in an early grave.”

“I’m not too concerned about that seeing as I already have my foot in one.” Dutch’s smug smile collapsed and didn’t bounce back. “I’m more worried about you. Tell me, did you suffer from a head injury lately?”

Bill and Micah looked as stupefied by this question as Dutch did. “Not that I recall.”

“Really? And here I was thinking your actions as of late could only have been done by a man not in his right of mind. What exactly were you thinking when you blew Stillwater to high hell and then following up that idiocy with gunning down a man in broad daylight?”

His eyebrows lifted but they gave nothing away. “Those are heavy accusations to be throwing around.”

“Having proof lightens the load.” That quip brought Dutch’s smile back though Hosea didn’t share it. “Now federal agents and local law enforcement are baring down on all of us. Sniffing around in places they never did before.”

“Sounds like you can’t take the heat no more, old timer. Maybe someone oughta put you out to pasture.”

Hosea didn’t spare Micah a glance, though his arm swiftly blocked Arthur from marching forward. “It’s gonna come back to haunt you, Dutch.”

“Maybe. But not as much as you. In any revolution, the king always has the most to lose. I’m trying to make a better world, Hosea, for all them fine folks out there who want to move forward. Move away from people like you who think they have the right to try to shape the world into the grotesque, backwards vision they have in their heads.”

Dutch always spoke with such feeling that it made you want to believe in him even if he was speaking nonsense.

“So much bluster, so little sense. I’m not trying to shape anything. I’m a businessman. That’s it. You speak like you’re some sort of messiah come to liberate the masses and from what? Low crime rates? The lack of protection rackets? You’ve always suffered from delusions of grandeur but this is a bit much even for you. I don’t buy it. This is just yet another chapter in the ongoing saga of your decades-old grudge against me.”

His fingers flexed at his sides, white gloved fingers snapping straight then coiling back into fists. “I’d choose your next words carefully, old friend. You never know who is listening.”

Arthur became all-too-aware of their audience. Narrowed stares came from many those milling about before, others from the windows. Just how many at this party were here on Dutch’s behalf? So many men more than happy to pull back their jackets and let the light of the chandeliers or moon gleam off their guns and knives. Javier and Trelawny now blocked their only escape, though the latter kept glancing over his shoulder like he wouldn’t mind fleeing through those doors himself. Undaunted, Arthur stepped in front of Hosea. He didn’t expect Dutch to actually give the order but all it took was for one idiot to “accidentally” fire.

A range of emotions contorted Dutch’s face. He was never one to back down but perhaps he shared the fear of a finger slip. “Lower your weapons.” When there was a hesitation, he barked out, “Now!”

One-by-one, jackets were closed. That wasn’t good enough for Hosea. He side-stepped Arthur and got far too close to Dutch. “All this for me? I don’t know whether to be touched or concerned. Nothing says paranoid like a small army.”

“I prefer the term ‘cautious’ but call it what you will.”

“You always focus on the wrong things, Dutch. I’m not the one you should be worried about. You should be asking yourself,” he paused and spoke slowly, “just where are my men?”

Murmurs spread across the terrace, growing louder as heads turned in waves in search of triggermen lurking in the plain sight. Those under his employ spread like a swarm of flies with a flick of his head, shooting out in every direction while Dutch stared down Hosea like it was possible to get a read on him. But the older man kept his blank mask on until they were mostly alone. He softened and somehow Dutch easily interpreted this.

“Clever.”

Arthur let go of the breath he was holding. None of his men were here. It had been a ruse to clear everyone out.

“No, not really,” Hosea replied in a joyless tone. “If I was, I wouldn’t have let you scurry around for years under the floorboards, batting you away whenever you plucked up enough courage to crawl out. Why’d I do it, Dutch? Was it out of some mistaken sense of loyalty to the person I thought you were? To keep Arthur happy?”

“Hell if I know.” Dutch walked past him and placed his hands on the railing. Flat Iron Lake stretched out; a near all-consuming black that drowned out most of the lights trying to dance on its waves. “Let me guess, you came here tonight to tell me that you’re not going to tolerate my interference anymore.”

“I told you to stay away from our boy.”

That was the last he heard. Or let himself hear for that matter. Arthur left. Both called his name but he kept on. Maybe a stronger man could take it. But not him. Not tonight. Not when Arthur felt as brittle as the porcelain vases that lined this impossibly long hall back to the front doors. He was tired and he was frustrated and guilt had him by the throat and if he didn’t get out of here he was going to—

“Arthur! Everything alright?” Abigail said, perking up at his arrival in the parlor. She hurried over, adjusting the loose white mink fur wrap around her bare shoulders. “We were worried ‘bout you.”

He grunted in response, not trusting himself to say anything that wasn’t nasty. Damn it, John. They were supposed to be long gone by now. Instead he was leaning against the wall, one foot propped up while he smoked and eyed Trelawny as he quickly put on his coat.

“Making a hasty exit?” John teased.

“Not just from here, but from the whole town. If you have any semblance of intelligence, dear boy, you’d do the same. This whole situation is a powder keg and I don’t plan to get caught up in the explosion.”

“Don’t waste your breath, Mr. Trelawny. He don’t listen to reason, this one.”

“Oh shut up, you should know I wouldn’t leave without you.” The playful glint in his eye faded. “Did Dutch do something? Is Hosea alright?”

“John, leave him be!”

“How am I supposed to help when I don’t know what’s going on? He looks ready to kill someone!”

“Keep askin’ questions and it’ll be you.”

Abigail rolled her eyes all the way around until they landed on Trelawny, who had been watching the three of them with thinly-veiled amusement. He tipped his hat to her and left.

\--

Sunlight bled in. Venetian blinds lay bars along John’s bare back while a streak hit Arthur square in the eye. He squinted at his rude awakening before turning his head away from the light and pressing a kiss against the mass of dark hair by his lips. Relegated to a pillow, it seemed. John rose and fell with Arthur’s steady breathing. Still in the same position they apparently passed out in, his bed was a mess of limbs, rumpled blankets, and discarded clothing. Half smoked cigarettes poked out of an ashtray next to a bottle of cheap booze on his bedside table. Unopened. Guess John was the only nightcap he needed.

A yawn rumbled up his chest and despite trying to muffle it, John still stirred. It was sort of cute until he hissed like a damned cat when the light graced his face. “What time is it?”

Good luck finding his wristwatch in his bed. “Based on the sun, I’d say just after six.”

“Shit.” John hastily threw the first blanket he could get his hands on over their heads before burying his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck. “Time shouldn’t exist before noon on Sundays.”

“Y’know, you might just be the laziest bastard I’ve ever met.”

“Not everyone wants to get up at the crack of dawn, _old man_.”

Arthur chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Entangled and enveloped in light blue cotton sheets lit up by the sun, everything had a soft glow that smoothed out all the rough edges. Well, almost. There were still things sticking out in his mind; thoughts sharp and jagged like a broken knife that still drew pain just the same. John didn’t ask questions last night. He simply pulled Arthur down on top of him and let him forget for a short while. Arthur wanted to forget again. Things were supposed to seem better in the morning, but the many weights on his shoulders were still there. Heavy as ever. Waiting for when he stopped hiding under the blankets.

“So…should I expect to be bumped off by one of daddy’s henchmen?”

Arthur rolled his eyes so hard his head went along with it. “He’d never do that. Hosea doesn’t have any daughters to be an overbearing father to so I get the full brunt of it.”

“Any chance at a good impression was squandered before he caught us. He knows I’m not good enough for you. I mean, who’d want some booze peddlin’ scoundrel going after their war hero son.”

“Quit calling me that. I’m no hero. Killing people ain’t nothing to be proud of.”

“Dunno about that. I think if you shot Micah, you’d be quite pleased.”

“…I might crack a smile.”

The two laughed. Yet as they did, Hosea’s words came back to him. Arthur didn’t want to ruin the moment but he couldn’t help but ask, “Where’d you go after you ran away from the orphanage?”

John clammed up, pulling away in silence, and Arthur wanted to slap himself. He nearly retracted the question but hell, his foot was already half in his mouth. Might as well shove it all in there.

“When Hosea asked what I knew about you, he mentioned it. I kinda figured as much. Both you and Abigail. You got a house full of pictures but none of your parents. That usually means either poor relations or—”

“Bit early for detective work,” John grunted, throwing the blanket off of them.

He rose to leave but decided against it, laying beside him once more and following the trail of hair on Arthur’s chest with his hand. “I didn’t go nowhere really. I grew up on the streets. Weren’t pleasant, but it was safer than any of those reformatories the law liked to toss me into.” His hand swept over his stomach, voice growing harsher as he spoke. “Ran away from those too.” Arthur grabbed John’s hand before it reached its destination. “I did what I had to in order to survive.”

The thought of John going through what Arthur did and for much longer—scared, desperate, and so painfully alone for years—made his heart ache. Scores of additional questions flooded him but he kept them in. John was so uncomfortable he was trying to use sex to avoid talking about his past.

Arthur hoped offering a piece of himself would be a sufficient enough apology. “They sent my father to the chair when I was eleven. Should’ve been done earlier really. I was on the streets for about three years before Dutch and Hosea found me. I don’t know what you went through but you don’t gotta tell me anymore unless you wanna.”

John kissed him; a chaste thank you. “Funny how we got so much in common," he smiled sadly, before using Arthur as a pillow once more.

They lay quiet for a short while before John spoke up again, “Listen, you don’t gotta tell me about last night neither. But I just wanna say, whatever happened? It ain’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself for what Dutch and Hosea do. That’s on them.”

Guess he didn’t need to get out of bed to face what he had been trying to ignore. “Am I that easy to read?”

“Kinda.”

“It’s just…” No matter how hard he tried, somehow he always made the wrong choice. “I never should’ve gotten involved with this case. The moment I realized Dutch was trying to use Heidi’s murder to start shit with Hosea, I should’ve bowed out. Instead I barged forward, got people killed, and helped incite a war.”

John placed his hand on his cheek, forcing Arthur to look at him. “What the hell did I just say? None of this is your fault. Y’hear me? Not Kieran. Not Stillwater. Not any of it.”

“You’re the only thing I don’t regret,” Arthur muttered, throat going dry as the words came out. He kissed the open palm.

“Run away with me,” John blurted out. “You, me, Abigail, and Jack. We can start over somewhere and—and be a family. Heidi would understand!”

“That won’t solve nothing, darlin’. I’ve been runnin’ from things my whole life. Your problems follow you wherever you go.”

“I know,” John admitted sadly.

There was a knock at the door. The milkman. Arthur considered ignoring it but with his stomach on the verge of growling, breakfast wasn’t such a bad idea. Arthur stretched and ignored John’s complaints as he got up and put his white housecoat on.

“Now why you gotta go and cover up?”

“It’s called common decency. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

Arthur made his way through his apartment to the front door, finding both a bottle of milk and the newspaper waiting for him. He picked up both, eyes skimming the front page headline casually.

‘_Scores Slain or Arrested in Police Raids! All Four Distilleries Run by Dutch’s Boys Seized in New Austin.’_

The glass cracked as it hit the ground. Arthur gripped the paper with both hands. The Bureau of Prohibition and State Police conducted a major operation last night to capture the major facilities that kept New Austin wet and those behind them. A warrant for Dutch van der Linde’s arrest had been issued across three states. State authorities were working with their West Elizabeth and Ambarino counterparts to both apprehend him as he was last spotted in Blackwater and seize his facilities in latter state.

Stark naked and expression wild, John jumped out from the bedroom with Arthur’s gun in hand and aimed it at the door.

Instinctively, Arthur ducked. “Put that down, Marston!” It was then he noticed the mess at his feet. “Arthur, you dumbass.”

John lowered the gun. “What’s wrong?”

He tossed the newspaper him then grabbed the first rag he could find in his kitchen, then bent down to soak up the split milk. Thank heavens the bottle had only broken into a few pieces.

His lips moved as he read the report, face paling steadily. “Dutch is gonna lose his mind.”

“If he hasn’t alrea—Christ’s sakes!” John was reading the newspaper in doorway, not caring if anyone saw his bare ass.

The shameless fool laughed and used his hip to knock the door shut, before tossing the newspaper aside. He took the shards of glass and the wet rag out of Arthur’s hands, then took them away. Arthur leaned against the wall. He remembered Hosea’s threat to ruin Dutch. This was certainly the way to do it. Dutch had long bribed authorities to look the other way. Hosea must’ve outbid him and gave them everything they needed to attack. By cutting off his bootlegging money and cutting off access to his rackets, he was going to get desperate—and a desperate Dutch was a dangerous Dutch.

“This is a good thing, Arthur. Once Dutch is in jail, he can’t hurt us anymore. No more extortion or threats.”

“No jail cell can hold Dutch van der Linde. Even if he is arrested, he can reach out from behind the bars.”

“That’s true but look, they nabbed Capone! He ain’t invincible.” Arthur continued to frown and so John tugged at the belt around his waist. “If Dutch worms his way out of this one, we’ll figure something out.”

Arthur let his housecoat fall onto the floor. Breakfast could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing confrontation scenes with Dutch and Hosea is always a fun challenge because this Hosea, who has been separated from Dutch for roughly fifteen years, isn't going to back down like he does in the game. I hope it still struck the right chord though.
> 
> *Throws confetti in the air* I hit the 100K club! Thank you so much for reading this chapter and for all your support for this story. I hope you and your loved ones are doing well. Stay safe! <3


	22. The Spaces Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After enjoying their morning together, it all goes to hell in afternoon when Arthur and John get tangled up in Dutch's search for answers following the police raids in New Austin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was nervous about posting this because I don't know if those who are subscribed are going to get an email notification. *Crosses fingers and hopes for the best*
> 
> Content Warning: Making good on my promise for Bottom!Arthur in this one. There's also some genre-typical violence later on.

The drop of his housecoat acted like a pistol fired into the air. No sooner than when the garment hit the floor and Arthur was bare and exposed in the unforgiving morning light did John surge forward. The door rattled from the impact. They tried to kiss while snorting out chuckles. Too much teeth. Not enough lips. Both smiling too damn much to make anything but a mess of it. Skin still warm from the bed he regretted leaving, Arthur pulled John close until he was practically draped along his body. No objections, rather it spurred him forward, kissing Arthur with such fervor that he was left breathless in every sense of the word. You’d think John was a man deprived—like he wasn’t writhing beneath Arthur less than six hours ago.

“Easy, boy,” Arthur dragged out the words and barely pulled back an inch. Bodies flush, he could already feel John stirring with interest against him.

“You telling me to slow down or making an observation?” John nipped along his neck just below his ear. “If it’s the latter, that’s on you, you handsome fuckin’ bastard.”

“Well ain’t you a charmer.” Arthur tilted his head back. “It was the former but we should probably hold off anyhow. Lots of work to do.”

Not exactly a lie. He wanted to bounce some ideas off of John about getting his hands on Heidi’s diary, scamming their way onto the Serendipity, and the like. But more truth came from his fingers than his mouth, having veered onto the familiar slopes of John’s slender waist. Dangerous territory.

“Who you tryin’ to convince, huh? Me or you?” Not above resorting to underhanded tactics, John wedged his thigh between his legs. The pressure made Arthur inhale sharply. “As your boss, I’m giving you the day off.”

“You ain’t my boss, Marston.” Arthur pushed him back and pointed a finger in his smug face. “You’re just footin’ the bill.” He jerked his thumb back at himself. “I decide how and when I work.”

John knocked the hand aside. “Yeah, but I decide _what_ you work on and _I’m_ the only thing on your to-do list today.”

Arthur’s heavy sigh did nothing to straighten out John’s arched eyebrow. “That was terrible even by your standards.”

That wasn’t the end of it. Not by a long shot. Not with John grinning in that wolfish way of his. His arm shot out to the wall and thwarted Arthur’s escape for all of two seconds. He ducked underneath and skirted past him with a smirk. John heated up faster than a match and that fire was even more fun to play with in the bedroom. He could hear the light padding of bare feet along the hardwood floor. The scratch of a lazy finger skimming idly along the suede fabric of his couch as John stalked behind him.

The hug from behind didn’t take Arthur by surprise but his question did. “Why don’t you have any pictures on your walls? You don’t even have one of yourself.”

Expecting something flirtatious or maybe an off-hand comment with a bite, Arthur stumbled over his response. “Would you pose for a lot of pictures with a mug like this?”

“Absolutely.”

He spoke with such sincerity that Arthur couldn’t scowl nor say anything snarky like he usually did when hit by such a bold-faced compliment. Not like he could thank him neither. No matter how hard he looked, Arthur could never see what John saw in him. He turned around to find a peculiar softness had replaced his red-hot gaze. It made Arthur feel even more naked than he already was.

John cupped his face with those big hands of his and pressed chaste pecks to the corner of his mouth, moving inward slowly, and holding him with such tenderness that Arthur was startled into silence. Wayward thumbs traced Arthur’s cheekbones like he wanted to memorize their shape as their lips softly glided and overlapped one another. Gentle in all the ways John usually wasn’t and drawn out like the lazy Sunday morning they found themselves in, it was disorienting. He could feel himself moving backwards. Back into his bedroom where a tornado had apparently blown through. Streaks of light decorated the clothes strewn everywhere. When his legs bumped into the bed, down he went. John didn’t follow, going to the window to yank the cord of the Venetian blinds. They shot up and sunshine flooded the room.

“You gone blind or somethin’?”

“We’re always foolin’ around in closets, dark offices, and under the covers.” John had the audacity to wink as he kneeled and spread Arthur’s legs. “Wanted to see you for a change.”

“If you don’t quit butterin’ me up I’m gonna have to gag you.”

It was a wonder he didn’t get dizzy from how fast the blood in his head went south when John gripped the nape of his neck. He held Arthur where he wanted him. Kisses bled into nips as he dragged his teeth down the soft skin of his throat, tongue dipping into the hollow of Arthur’s collarbone. Slow-moving fingers were splayed wide to touch as much as possible, trailing up the thick muscles of his thighs to either side of his torso. His own fingertips longed to retrace the shape of John’s back as his weight bared down on him. That would have to wait. For now, they settled upon the wiry muscles of his arms and the delightfully broad shoulders as John descended; mouth latching onto his left nipple. Thumb idly played with the other. His soft, surprised gasp became a hiss when teeth scraped against the sensitive skin.

“Careful, John,” he warned, even as a treacherous shiver ran up his spine and he arched into the heat of his mouth.

Still got a kiss of apology despite the contradiction and Arthur gripped John’s mussed up locks, keeping him there. His cock twitched impatiently between them as John sucked and licked, hardening the bud into a peak, and again when brought over by Arthur to the other side. A too sharp tug John’s hair however made him pull off with a smirk.

“I used to have it long. Like past my chin long.” He rested his forehead against his chest for a moment. “I cut it short a few years back to look respectable.”

“Darlin’, you have no hope in hell of ever lookin’ respectable.”

“Ain’t that what you like about me?”

Truth be told, the list of things Arthur liked about John was getting embarrassingly long. Sure, handsome and full of hellfire were on the list. But so was the way John fit against his body. How they were so alike that sometimes they understood each other without words. How even though he drove him up the wall and right through the ceiling most days, John reignited a spark within him that Arthur was so sure was dead and gone. Wife and child in the ground and scores of innocent men put there by his own hand, Arthur often questioned what right he had to happiness. But not right now. Not with John looking at up him like that.

“Who said I liked you?”

“Call it a hunch.”

When John pinned his wrists to the mattress, Arthur’s brows bent in equal parts excitement and confusion until John began to nuzzle and press kisses into the soft curve of his stomach. Arthur squirmed and swore but the bastard wouldn’t let go. At first, he chalked it up to John being his usual bratty self but he kept at it. A point was being made and John was going to make Arthur listen whether he liked it or not. That despite what he may think of himself, there was no part of him that John would rather be hidden away in the dark.

“Still can’t get over how _fine_ you look.” Subtlety, thy name was not John Marston. “Especially last night. All dolled up like a goddamn movie star. Felt like the belle of the ball when you danced with me.”

“Shut up, would ya?” Arthur rolled his eyes. Mostly at himself for blushing like an idiot. “You made your point.”

“It’s a shame Hosea showed up when he did. I was two seconds from dropping to my knees and—”

“You’re gonna talk yourself straight outta my bed.”

John called his bluff by grabbing his swollen cock and dragging his flattened tongue up the underside towards the tip in a painstakingly slow, I’m-not-going-anywhere sort of way. Arthur swore and did so again when he lapped up what had already leaked out, humming in content. If the flush on his chest hadn’t already swept up to the roots of his hair, it certainly did when he was engulfed by the glorious wet hot heat of John’s mouth. He moaned a sad, lonely sound from deep within; muscles clenching as he tried not to rock forward. Normally John lacked self-restraint, desperate to swallow down what he could. Not this time. John pumped Arthur lazily while swirling his tongue and sucking only at the crown. Toes curling and lifting from the floor, there were no complaints from him.

Then he heard the frantic rummaging in his nightstand drawer.

John wasn’t trying to take things slow. He was attempting to feel around blindly without pulling himself off of Arthur. When he did, it was with an obscene pop. “Where the hell is it?”

Arthur started laughing, especially when he propped himself up on his elbows and saw how frustrated John was. Last night was a haze and not easy to wade through given how distracting the incessant throbbing between his legs was. Arthur felt along the blankets and under the pillows. He remembered John whining at him to hurry up. Even in his haste he doubted he tossed the small glass jar of Vaseline aside with the same carelessness as he tore off his own clothes.

“Try under the bed?”

There was a triumphant cackle. Half-lidded and smile loose with the sunlight painting his bare skin and brown eyes with flecks of gold, Arthur couldn’t help but watch John. He moaned softly while coating his painfully rigid prick, eyes fluttering shut and mouth falling ajar. As John rocked into his fist and his teeth snagged part of his lip, Arthur’s hands clawed at the blanket beneath them. Suddenly John was on him. Tongue in his mouth. Pressing down on him. Arthur clutched at his face, thumbs and lips brushed along the many scars. Wet and sloppy, they breathed in and out hot desperate huffs of breath while their slick cocks rubbed together.

“John, please,” Arthur whispered, hating how desperate he sounded.

One finger was fine. Two had him sling a forearm over his eyes. John worked him open slowly though. He may snap and scowl and try to rush him through this part, but John had the opposite attitude when it was Arthur under his hands. Despite how the tug-of-war they engaged in when it was the other way around was fun as sin, truthfully Arthur never minded handing the reins over. An insatiable devil and with the self-control of a beast who had broken free of its chains, John’s eagerness was dizzying but Arthur loved it. Loved how it pulled him out of his head that got far too loud at times. Loved the way it made him feel. Cared for. Desirable even.

What he didn’t love was when the bastard teased him too much. Three fingers in him and his hand a blur on his cock, Arthur was uttering nonsensical things while his hips writhed uncontrollably.

Both hands froze. “I’m not distracting you from work, am I?” John asked straight-faced. “We can hold off until later if you need to—”

“Marston!” Arthur grabbed John’s hair harder than he should. “Quit wastin’ my time.”

“Well, well! Now who’s impatient?”

Arthur had given himself before to John but the breath he was holding still came out with a hitch when the tip breached him. Propped up on his elbows, John tilted his head to press rough kisses of apology along his jaw and chin. Arthur shook his head, the tenderness of it too sweet for the likes of him, and John stopped. He kept his movements gentle, rolling his hips like steady waves in a calm sea. As his cock slowly pushed in deeper and deeper, Arthur found wanted more. He wanted the stretch and the fullness. Arthur wrapped his legs around those narrow hips and dug his heels into John’s ass.

“C’mon darlin’,” Arthur growled. “Like you mean it.”

“I always mean it.”

He got his wish. John almost pulled out only to sink right back in, all the way to the hilt. Arthur’s head rolled back and an embarrassing whine came out. Huffs of laughter felt cool on his neck as John wasted no time and began to fuck him in earnest. Arthur rocked along with him, gripping John’s biceps hard as he met his thrusts. Somehow John still was hungry for more and chased after his lips like he was starved without their taste. Arthur let himself be caught. With John pumping into him fast and rough, that their feverish skin wasn’t dripping off their bones like candle wax everywhere their bodies touched was nothing short of a miracle.

“John, _John_—”

He bared down on him, grunting out his name over the crude slap of skin upon skin. Arthur’s spine arched as John drew guttural sounds from him. He couldn’t smother them; hands too busy clawing at John’s sweat-slicked back. When John brought them even closer, slipping his arms under his back and grasping onto his shoulders for leverage, Arthur felt trapped in the best way possible. His aching cock was heavy and caught between them. Each thrust slammed into him knocked the air out of his lungs. Arthur couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Teetering so close to the edge, Arthur was writhing and whining and didn’t care how depraved he sounded. Whenever John took him like this, rutting into him fast and hard like a damned animal, he never lasted long.

“You’re so good, Arthur,” John buried his face hard in the crook of his neck. “So good to me.”

These words sent him over. Arthur barely had enough time to stuff his fingers into his mouth. Quick and blinding as lightning, the white-hot rolling heat behind the clenched muscles of his abdomen consumed him. John continued to pump into him, albeit erratically, as Arthur spilled onto their stomachs and chests. He didn’t last much longer, muffling his hoarse cry with the palm of his hand as he pulled out. John tugged at himself roughly, release coming out in thick spurts, adding to the mess on Arthur’s skin.

Still breathing hard and not fully with it, Arthur barely noticed when John sagged down beside him. His body clenched around nothing and he felt horribly empty and exhausted and sated all at once. Arthur gazed up at the ceiling, waiting for his heart and lungs to settle. John lay still, muttering one thing or another, but it wasn’t registering. It wasn’t until he dragged a finger across Arthur’s stomach that he came back into himself. John licked it off in such a lewd manner that he could only be trying to get a reaction out of him.

“Ready for round two?”

“You—You tryin’ to put me,” Arthur panted, “in an early grave?”

“We can switch.” He continued to stare at John incredulously which, of course, only spurred him on. “I can’t think of a better way to go. Imagine your epitaph. Here lies Arthur Morgan. Died doing what he loved: John Marston.”

He wheezed with laughter right up until the point Arthur shoved him off the bed.

\--

Sunday mornings were the only time Blackwater took a deep breath. Closed stores and packed churches meant few cars and fewer souls in sight. A disbeliever and sinner to boot, Arthur relished this part of the week. That’s why Arthur didn’t think too hard on the spaces between his conversation with John, when the whole world was too quiet for its own good. Even if it did remind him of the creeping sort of hush found in a graveyard that grew the further you waded among the dead. It seemed to unnerve John however, standing closer to Arthur than usual before The Blackwater Hotel. It looked as sleepy as the surrounding streets. Hell, even the doorman was leaning against its brick exterior, cap tilted low for a snooze. John was not impressed.

“You sure about this?” John eyed the buzzing, blinking sign at the corner of Main and Tallulah like it was liable to come crashing down on his head. “What if Micah comes back?”

“With the amount of heat on him, he’d be a fool to be within five miles of Blackwater.”

“If Micah skipped town, wouldn’t he bring the diary with him?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Don’t hurt to look.” Still basking in the afterglow of their morning, Arthur was in too good a mood to argue or tease John about his sudden case of nerves. “You let me do the detective work, darlin’, and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take you home when I’m done here.”

Arthur would place all his chips on the diary still being out there. Those ripped pages found in Dutch’s hotel room screamed that the diary was meant to be a weapon to frame others. He wanted to read Heidi’s on thoughts on Micah and Dutch and potentially use her own words as proof she was anything but suicidal at the time of her death.

John scowled. “If I finish up at Beecher’s and you’re still not out, I’m coming after you.”

Geometric shapes, marble, and gold trimmings, the Blackwater Hotel was the same as before, though the umbrella tree wasn’t on fire this time. Same elevator operator, the elderly man with a slightly curved spine gave Arthur a courteous nod before going back to cleaning the frosted window of the door before the gate. Same clerk too. The young, thin man’s bored expression was absent this time however. You would’ve thought he had sprouted a second head with the look he garnered.

“Good mornin’, I know—”

“Check-ins begin at noon, sir.” The clerk tapped the sign on the desk for good measure.

“I can read, thank you. I know it’s early but—”

“I’ll have to ask you to leave, sir. We’re all booked up anyways.”

His brows furrowed. “The parking lot ain’t full.”

“I, uh, right you are, sir.” He reached for the telephone. “Let me just check with my colleague to see what rooms we have available.”

Arthur was about to point out the reservation book was literally right under his nose but instead he watched the dial plate rotate under the clerk’s finger. Four digits into calling the police, Arthur grabbed his wrist. “You’re gonna hang up, keep your voice low, and tell me what the problem is.”

The clerk swallowed audibly, nearly dropping the receiver. “I don’t want any trouble, mister!” he whispered harshly, staring at the back of his colleague’s head like he could will him to turn around.

“I don’t either. I just wanna know what’s got you so spooked.”

“Don’t play dumb. You and that friend of yours have been repeatedly harassing a guest here. I’ve been instructed to phone the police if either of you came here again.”

Lip curling, Arthur let go of him. “Mr. Kilgore tell you that? Did he also tell you his real name is Micah Bell?” All color drained from the clerk’s face. The swirling motion of the elevator operator’s hand upon the glass had slowed enough that Arthur knew he was eavesdropping. “Yes, _that_ Micah Bell. Don’t believe me? Pick up a newspaper, kid. He’s right on the front page along with some other gentlemen you’ve probably seen ‘round here.”

The operator gave up his charade and flat out asked, “You some kind of detective?”

“Most days.” No point in lying now. “I’m investigating a murder that he’s a suspect in. You can call up the police and ask. They’ll vouch for me. But I hope you won’t ‘til I look around his room first.”

Fortunately, the clerk wasn’t wise enough to ask for a warrant. He decided to personally escort him to Room 712, giving him only ten minutes to snoop before he would be calling the police. Fair enough. They found the room unlocked. Still barren, but a bit more lived in. A couple of books, including _Leaves of Grass_, lay open on the floor. Drawers had been ripped out from the vanity and desk, all emptied on the bed. Nothing stood out. Mostly coins, socks, cigarettes, that sort of thing. No forgotten wallet on the dresser this time. Most of his clothes was still here including his tuxedo, which meant he did return at least briefly last night. This was why Arthur wasn’t too surprised when he didn’t come across the diary.

“What am I supposed to say to the police?” the clerk sighed as the elevator began to descend to the ground floor. “Hello, a dangerous criminal was staying here for a couple of months. Maybe come take a peek?”

“The police will interview the whole staff,” the operator pointed out. “All we can do is tell them what we remember about him, things we saw, and anything that might be helpful.”

“Sure didn’t look like the room of a killer.”

“Oh?” Arthur snorted. “Were you expecting a pile of bodies stashed in the closet?”

“What’d it look like?”

When the clerk shrugged, Arthur spoke up, “Like Mr. Bell had misplaced something and was in a hurry to find it.”

The floor indicator landed on the number one. When the elevator operator pulled aside the inner iron gate, the door was ripped open from the other side. Micah was there with a pair of degenerates. Bandanas over their mouths. Guns with suppressors. He didn’t have time to draw his pistol. Two muffled shots rang out; fired into the heads of the clerk and operator. Blood sprayed out the backs of their skulls, splattering onto the walls of the elevator and onto Arthur who stumbled backwards as their bodies slumped to the floor.

“Hey cowpoke.” Micah pulled down his crimson bandana. His smile very much met his eyes. “The boss wants a quick word.”

All three seized him. Ripped out of the elevator and gun stolen, he was kept at gunpoint by the far wall. Bill and Javier were working to make the hotel appear closed for the day. Drawn curtains. Open sign was flipped around. Lights out one-by-one. The front doors along with those for the stairs, office, and restaurant were locked and had chairs shoved under their knobs for good measure. Another corpse lay face-down, blood pooling around him on the marble floor. The doorman. Heart heavy with self-loathing, Arthur didn’t fight back when until the dark-haired brute with a face heavily lined from a harsh life and deep sunken eyes bound his wrists behind his back with rope. Too many hands grabbed at him. Poking and prodding. Fingers digging into his skin and clothes like they wanted to bruise him as they searched for something that clearly wasn’t there. Never had he been happier that his journal was safe in his car.

“Where the hell is it?” Micah snapped.

“Good question.”

His cheek cost him just that. A blunt object collided with his face, skin searing with pain as it was torn open. The man next to Micah, little more than a scrawny twig with a bad comb over and pronounced Adam’s apple, tittered with laughter.

“Ay! What the hell was that for?” Javier and Bill grabbed his biceps, pulling Arthur away from Micah. “Dutch said not to hurt him.”

Arthur clenched his teeth. “That all you got?”

“Look at him! He’s fine. I was simply reminding him who’s in charge here.” Micah wiped the blood on the edge of his suppressor off on Arthur’s shirt. “When’d you turn into such a killjoy, Greaser?”

“You tend to bring out that side of me.”

“Now ain’t the time nor place,” Bill interrupted. “Dutch is waiting.”

“Right you are, Marion.” Micah flicked his chin at the bodies in the elevator. “Cleet. Joe. Take care of things here and keep an eye out.”

A burlap sack bag came down over his head. Arthur was led this way and that through winding alleyways, further and further from the noise that had returned to the city streets. Hard to guess what direction they were going with the sun overhead like a hot spotlight following his every move. Sweat stung his fresh wound, still dripping down his cheek and soaking into the fabric. When they stopped, Arthur took a good whiff and regretted it. Rot clung to his nose. Broken glass crunched under his shoes.

“What did you do to my boy?” Dutch ripped the bloodied sack off and Arthur flinched at the sunlight. The bow of his upper lip retracted in muted horror and he grabbed Arthur’s chin, inspecting the wound.

“Don’t worry,” Micah replied, voice skin-crawlingly smooth. “Most of it ain’t his blood.”

It was a mistake to remove the bag. They were in a secluded lot behind what he suspected were a couple of condemned tenements not too far from the hotel. If he escaped, Arthur could easily find his way to the police. Dead vermin, old garbage, and glass shards littered the ground. It wasn’t the sort of place you’d expect to find Dutch van der Linde in. But there he was. Disheveled like the others and missing his golden rings. Gone were the sleek pinstripe suits and shining shoes. He and his men must’ve robbed a flophouse; clothes ill-fitting, mismatched, and heavily worn.

“So this is what it’s come down to?” Arthur jerked his chin free. “Disguising yourselves as common thieves and sneaking ‘round like rats to hide from the law so you can shake down folks?”

Face drawn, hair unkempt, and eyes bruised from a lack of sleep, Dutch had a particularly dangerous look about him. He stood tall though. Even more so after Arthur finished talking. There was always a certain amount of pride in his stance no matter how low he sunk.

“Son, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Arthur tried hard to sound calm. “Dutch, you know I had nothin’ to do with what happened last night.”

“Well, color me surprised! You figured out why we’re here without any clues. Guess you ain’t such a useless gumshoe after all.” Micah got right up into Arthur’s face. “Find anything interesting in my room?”

“Not this time, no.” Arthur looked past him. “Dutch, I don’t know what you expected to happen when you kept going after Hosea. ‘Course he was gonna push back.”

“What I expected,” Dutch said slowly, rolling the words over his tongue, “was for my son not to betray me.”

Micah shoved him into the brick wall. “When did you take the map, Morgan?”

“The hell you talkin’ about? What map?” Eight eyes glared. Although Arthur could suddenly sympathize with a fly caught in a web, he refused to get tangled up in whatever lie Micah had spun. “If one of you could enlighten me on what it is that you’re accusing me of, I’d appreciate it.”

“The only way Hosea could have known where my distilleries were would be through the map Mr. Bell had in his possession, which is conveniently missing.”

Arthur squinted at him. “How could I take a map that I didn’t know existed ‘til now?”

Well, that explained what Micah had been looking for in his bedroom. Or maybe what he wanted others to think he had been looking for. Micah was working with Milton and Ross. Maybe they were trying to take Dutch down using the only man strong enough to do it. Arthur wished he had told Dutch earlier about Micah’s treachery. If he said anything now, Dutch wouldn’t believe him.

It didn’t explain what Micah had been searching for on his person though.

“Sounds to me like you have a rat, Dutch. If anything, I’d be lookin’ at the person who had it last.”

“He’s _lying_,” Micah sneered. “We all know how much he enjoys sniffing around hotel rooms. Even yours, Dutch.”

Shit. “I didn’t take the goddamn map!”

“I did raise you to be a good thief, Arthur.”

“C’mon, Dutch. You know me. You know how I feel ‘bout you and Hosea fighting. Why would I try to make the situation worse?”

“What I know is that every single time Hosea and I fight, you always take his side.”

“Now let’s get one thing straight, I ain’t on nobody’s side.” Arthur let that hang in air for a moment. “I wouldn’t do this, Dutch. I wouldn’t go behind your back and—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His words were little more than a hiss by the end. He grabbed his face, forcing Arthur to look him in the eye. “You’ve been going behind my back this whole time trying to find out if I or Mr. Bell here murdered Miss McCourt. How am I supposed to trust you?”

Some sort of commotion down the alleyway from which they came cut Arthur off. Cleet and Joe rounded the corner, laughing and nudging John forward with their guns. Wrists also bound and a sack over his head, John was at the mercy of his captors and could do nothing when the taller one whacked him across the back of his skull with his gun. Stunned by the blow, John stumbled and fell before Dutch’s feet. In the distance, sirens began to wail.

“John!” Arthur took a step forward. Bill and Javier’s grip kept him from taking two. “Let him go!”

“Joe found him trying to pick the lock to get into the hotel,” the rat-faced one supplied.

“He has nothin’ to do with any of this!”

“Settle down, Morgan,” he taunted, blue eyes alight with unmistakable glee. “I can’t kill you but I can certainly kill him.”

“Jesus,” John scoffed. “You _still_ tryin’ to act tough? Drop the charade. You can’t do shit to me or Dutch’ll lose his leverage over Arthur.”

Dutch ripped the bag off his head. “You sure do like to run your mouth, don’t you, boy?”

Eyes wide and wild like a cornered animal, John still rose on unsteady legs to meet Dutch’s glare. Dark eyes blazing with open hatred. Shoulders squared. Chests puffed like a pair of roosters trying to intimidate the other; heaving slightly from their poorly concealed rage. Fists clenched and ready to strike—even though John couldn’t swing his. It was like looking in a mirror. A slightly distorted one but a reflection all the same.

“No more than you do.”

Dutch grasped his face. “You overestimate your value. My son has—”

“You ain’t fit to be callin’ anyone son with the way you treat him! What kind of father manipulates his son and threatens to kill those he cares about?”

Arthur wanted to scream at John to shut up but the sirens were growing, not fading, and being manhandled hadn’t robbed him of the razor-sharp gleam in his eye.

John had called the police. He was just trying to waste time in the hopes they’d get caught.

“I swear you’re dumber than a sack of potatoes. Why you here, Dutch? Why ain’t you hiding? It’s like you want the cops to nab you.”

“Shut your mouth.” Each word was punched out as he squeezed his cheeks to make John’s lips jut out. “I am the sort of father that will use a heavy hand to remind _my son_ where his loyalties should lie.” Dutch forced John back onto his knees and shoved his face aside hard. John fell back over. “Don’t test me, because I can assure you, boy, it won’t end well for you.”

“You have to go.” Javier didn’t bother to hide his alarm as he tugged at Dutch’s arm. “We all do. Don’t you hear that? The cops are at the hotel!”

Micah didn’t hear him or didn’t care, too busy testing out the strength of another piece of rope. Before anyone had time to react, he brought it over John’s head. Wrapped and crossed it tight around his neck then pulled in opposite directions. A strangled cry came not from John, but from Arthur who couldn’t breathe as John’s whole body jerked violently. He made wretched gasps for air that couldn’t reach his lungs; shoes scrambling for purchase against the ground.

“He took the map!” Micah hissed, halting Dutch and Javier’s protests. “Think about it! Who has the most to gain? With you gone, he’d no longer have to worry about you coming for him or his family!”

Bill stared incredulously at the others before storming forward. “We don’t have time for this!”

Cleet and Joe were forced to grab hold of Arthur. Before he could shout, Joe tried to stuff his bandana into his mouth. He bit down hard into his fingers, tasting blood as the man howled in pain before backhanding him.

Face twisted with hate and teeth clenched, Micah’s arms were shaking from how hard he was pulling. “Or he got Arthur to do it! Which is it, Johnny?”

His eyes bulged and so did the veins along his neck from the strain. John tried to curl his right leg underneath him, tied hands reaching towards where he kept a switchblade in his sock garter, but he couldn’t reach it. His body lurched in the air. Held up only by that rope choking the life out of him, John’s weight worked against him, pulling him down hard. Horrid gasps gurgled from his gaping mouth.

“I took it! I stole the map! John had nothing to do with it!”

Dutch looked at Arthur. “That’s enough!” He pulled Micah off of John. “Go! Get out of here! All of you!”

John hit the ground. Wheezing and gasping for air like his throat had been torn out. Raw and ragged, it sounded like every breath pained him and that he still couldn’t get anything down. His nails continued to dig into his palms and he bleeds while coughing and gagging like he might retch. The instant his arms were free, Arthur dropped down by John’s side, voice breaking as he tried to tell him he was going to be alright and how sorry he was. The others splintered off into varying directions. Only Cleet paused when Dutch held out his hand, handing over Arthur’s pistol reluctantly.

Dutch didn’t run. Not yet. Carding his fingers through his own hair, his breaths were heavy, crackling with nervous energy as he stared at the gun in his hand. Waiting for the click of the hammer, Arthur closed his eyes. Instead his Colt clattered against the ground.

“You always were a terrible liar,” Dutch muttered, bending down and slicing through Arthur’s binds with a knife.

He immediately tore at the binds around John’s own wrists. Once freed, Arthur carefully pulled him into his arms. His breaths were still sharp and painfully hitched, sucked in loudly over his teeth. Too upset to speak, Arthur pressed his lips to John’s forehead, refusing to look at Dutch even though he could feel the weight of his stare and shadow upon his back.

“I have a favor to ask.”

Arthur glared at him over his shoulder. He had to be kidding, right?

“Colm O’Driscoll has taken something of mine. Again.” Arthur grimaced at the emphasis. As if he could forget the first time. He was the one who had found Annabelle slain. “I know he has no intention of returning two of my men, Leopold Strauss and Orville Swanson, even if I gave into his demands. Instead you two are going to steal them right out under his nose and return them to me. Alive.”

“Or what?” Arthur spat. “You’ll send that madman to finish what he started?”

Whatever Dutch was thinking, he didn’t share it. His expression lingered on the two of them, slowly growing darker and darker like a cloud moving in on the sun.

Then he left.

\--

The main house on the Matthews Estate was beautiful in a lonely sort of way. A country manor built for grand parties from the bygone century. No matter how much elegant furniture, unique paintings, family photos, or bounds of flowers the late Bessie Matthews stuffed into its walls, it still felt empty. Arthur bothered the large bandage on his cheek absentmindedly. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to talk about what transpired, and especially didn’t want to entertain the idea of going to New Austin. He just wanted to take John home. Sure, Abigail would throw the fit of the century, but she had every right. John insisted though upon seeing Hosea, thinking that he would know what to do. Arthur couldn’t bring himself to say no.

“It’s a fool’s mission.” Hosea reached for yet another cigarette from the tray on the coffee table between them. Lenny tried to use his foot to nudge it away but a stern look made him reconsider. “Even if you two managed to find where they’re being held, they’re already dead.”

“How do you know?” Lenny asked.

“The only thing Colm could want is for Dutch to relinquish his territory along the Dakota. They’ve been fighting over that river for years. It’s the quickest way to transport product. Colm knows Dutch would die before giving it up. He will be expecting Dutch to try some sort of rescue mission.”

“Then why ask?” John spoke in a strained voice, shifting uncomfortably on the couch as he brought the ice bundled inside a cloth to the other side of his ravaged neck. “Why not just kill me?”

Hosea took a much needed drag. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“From what I know about him,” Charles began, shifting his weight against the wall he was leaning against. Extra guards were on duty today in case of any retaliation. Sadie flashed by the open window, patrolling out on the veranda with her favorite rifle. “Dutch always wants to be in control. Over situations, people, everything. When he wants you dead, it’ll be on his terms.”

Lenny picked up the blasted map that had caused all this trouble off the table. The need for it was obvious. All four former bootlegging operations looked like a job and a half to reach, well-hidden and remote. “If neither of you sent this, then who did?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. It came from an anonymous source around the time Kieran was murdered along with a note telling me to ‘Do with this what you will.’” Hosea blew out a long wisp of smoke. “What are we going to do with you, Mr. Marston?”

“What do you mean?”

“Dutch knows Arthur is crazy about you. That’s how he’s able to manipulate him.” Arthur blushed hard even though Lenny, Charles, and Sadie—who was absolutely eavesdropping—didn’t react. “However, if you’re removed from the equation—”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He grabbed Arthur’s hand with both of his and all of the ice cubes came tumbling out of the cloth. Wincing his idiocy, John bent down to pick them up off the floor.

“We can have someone take care of your business while you and your family are somewhere safe.” Hosea waved his hand through the smoke to look at him directly. “You’re endangering their lives by staying.”

John was having none of it, glaring up at everyone from the floor. “Even if I was gone, Dutch will just threaten someone else that Arthur cares about. He’s not going to stop. As long as he’s alive, Dutch will never leave you or Arthur alone.”

The truth of that statement weighed over them like a low-lying cloud, heavy and oppressive, and sucked all the air out of the room. Only Sadie was unaffected. “Isn’t it in your best interest, Hosea, to make sure Colm don’t get a stronger foothold in New Austin now that you mostly cleared Dutch outta there?”

“Yes.”

Arthur didn’t like where this was going. “Now ain’t the time to start shit with the O’Driscolls. You don’t need a two-front war.”

“Exactly. We can’t let Colm know we’re undermining his efforts so what if we pretended to be working for Dutch? Think about it. The O’Driscolls down south ain’t ever seen us before. They’re not gonna know better if we throw Dutch’s name around while trying to track down their hideouts.”

John perked up. “So when Colm starts asking questions, that’s what’ll get back to him.”

Arthur frowned and it only worsened when he saw Hosea rubbing his jaw, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. Christ alive! Was he was actually considering it? “That’ll work, Mrs. Adler, until Colm gets a description of myself, you, or Charles. He knows who we are.”

“He wouldn’t suspect Hosea to send you though,” Charles pointed out. “He’d think you were legitimately helping out Dutch.”

Sadie gestured towards John. “Colm don’t know who he is. Probably figure him to be a recent hire by Dutch. With you two asking the questions, we could pull this off.”

“Strauss is Dutch’s accountant,” Hosea mused, clearly sold on the idea. “If he’s alive, I’d like to look into his finances and see where cash is still flowing in. Then cut it off.”

John squeezed Arthur’s hand. “Wouldn’t it be helpful for our case to see what Dutch has been spending money on?”

Maybe. Probably. Not to mention, if they were alive it could be another opportunity to learn more about Dutch and Micah’s relationship. That was a big if though. One that Arthur didn’t want to gamble John on. God, this gang war was like quicksand. Every move he made, every time he tried to get out, he just sunk deeper and deeper. He didn’t want to pull down John with him too.

“You’re not going, Marston.”

“That ain’t your choice.” Sadie entered the room through the window with the same nonchalance as she would a door. “John looks like a man who can handle himself. He’ll be fine even if you don’t come.”

“I like her.” John slapped Arthur’s arm with the back of his hand casually. “Why didn’t you introduce us earlier?”

She held out her hand. “Sadie Adler.”

John shook it readily. “John Marston.”

Charles’s knowing gaze flickered between the two before settling on Arthur. “I’ll go too.”

Although he was a hard man to read, Arthur knew Charles only ever had the best intentions in mind. However, if that was supposed to make him feel better or give him an out, it didn’t. While Lenny volunteered to stay with Hosea to keep an eye on things here, Arthur grabbed the crystal decanter full of whiskey and let the indecent amount sloshed into his glass do all the talking. He was going alright and not happy about it in the slightest. This was going to be a goddamn nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I’m not doing this just because I adore Sadie and Charles and think it’s an absolute crime Rockstar didn’t have the four of them do at least one mission together. There’s actually a point to all of this in relation to the bigger picture.
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your ongoing support. <3


	23. Born Unto Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, John, Sadie, and Charles go on a rootin' tootin' O'Driscoll shootin' road trip through New Austin.

Afternoons stretched out longer in New Austin. It could make one appreciate nights more when the relentless heat was just a memory burned into skin. Perhaps the sun got such a kick out of how the land spit in its eye with its determination to survive that it couldn’t help but slow down to admire its grit. There was certainly enough of that blowing around as two gunslingers stood opposite on a dirt road, fingers dancing over their holsters. Hats tilted just enough to look up from under dramatically; all-American good looks not completely lost in their shadows. One hat was white, of course, like the handkerchief clutched in his sweetheart’s hand watching with bated breath from the doors of the saloon. The unkempt and heavily mustached outlaw wore the black hat. Thank God. How else would people know he was the villain?

Charles side-eyed the fans blowing plumes of dust between the actors as the four walked together behind the cameras. “I feel like I’ve seen this movie before and they haven’t finished filming yet.”

“You have.” Sadie led them down a side street. “Hollywood keeps shittin’ out the same story.”

Strauss and Swanson were last seen out near the Sea of Coronado but the four would be damned before roaming the desert, hoping to catch a footprint in the blowing sand. Where there was money, there were bootleggers and nobody had told Armadillo the economy had gone to hell. Same as the cacti or the mountains to the north, having shot up out of the parched earth towards an indifferent sky that only relented in brief violent bursts—there was a persistence. Jobs were aplenty. New houses and businesses were popping up along the paved roads. All south of Old Main Street to avoid ruining the illusion that Armadillo was still a frontier boomtown. Flush with cash from the film industry, speakeasies were plentiful and bored extras who gossiped between takes made tracking them down easy.

Well, mostly. The pharmacy they were searching for remained elusive.

“What about that place?” John pointed at a bookstore. Might as well take the door off the hinges with the way folks were coming in and out, holding large paper bags as they left.

Arthur removed his black leather hat to wipe his forehead along his sleeve. “Just ‘cause you don’t like reading don’t mean alcohol is the only way to get people in there.”

A spark of determination flashed behind John’s sunglasses. Those golden frames had been glued to his face as of late. Bloodied by burst vessels, the whites matched the lenses. “What bookstore is that busy on a Thursday afternoon? C’mon. It’s worth a shot.”

A collective shrug sent Charles and Sadie inside while Arthur and John went around the back. Even if he was right, there was still the matter of whether the O’Driscolls were the new suppliers. Until recently Dutch had the city under his thumb, supplying purveyors of vice with booze or “protection.” They gave it a few days before leaving Blackwater. Enough time for the desperate to make a switch. Armadillo was a bust so far, either turning to the Del Lobos or bathtub gin. In Hennigan’s Stead, most sought out local moonshiners or Hosea and his over-the-border supply lines. Didn’t spend long there.

John gave Arthur a bobby pin to pick the lock. “Want me to ask the questions this time?”

Hell no. Arthur didn’t want him to be here let alone risk having too many people see his distinctive scars. Last thing John needed was not one but two gangsters after him. “You stay out here, darlin’. I won’t be long.”

“Don’t darlin’ me, you—”

Upon hearing the click, Arthur quickly opened and shut the door, locking it for good measure. John flipped him off through the window and he yanked the curtains shut, chuckling softly. Slivers of sunlight still seeped in along the edges. Looked like a storage room full of metal shelves and boxes. Didn’t illuminate the floor though. He managed to trip over a box and would’ve felt like an idiot if not for the tell-tale clinking of glass bottles inside. Arthur tore it open and found liquor stashed beneath Agatha Christie’s latest.

John was going to be insufferable.

The lights flickered on. A portly, middle-aged man dressed well enough to suggest he ran the place stood comically slack-jawed in the opposite doorway. He puffed up, ready to yell.

“Don’t mind me.” Holding up the bottle worked like a pin to a balloon. “I’m just curious how you’re still serving up more than just a good read here when Mr. Van der Linde has hit a snag in his production.”

Deflated but not defeated, he shut the door. “I ain’t saying nothing without a lawyer.”

“Lawyer? Look, I’m not here to cause any grief.” Arthur set the rum down and raised his hands like he was calming a spooked horse. I just wanna know who’s supplying you and how. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“How much you want?”

“Nothing. Just pay me in answers.”

He tried at intimidation and stared Arthur down. It came across as constipated. The others were happy to open up to get rid of him. Perhaps Colm gagged his clients. He didn’t want to strong-arm him into talking. Sure, Charles and Sadie were on the other side ready to stop any interference should Arthur have to get rough, but he reserved violence for those who deserved it. Not some Joe with tight lips.

John had other ideas. The back door slammed against the wall as he stormed in. “There a problem here?”

Damn. He forgot the fool also could pick locks.

The manager bolted but John was faster, blocking him from escaping. All pinstripes and colors far too dark. Bloodied and bruised eyes on full display. Rope burn fresh around his neck. John looked menacing and sent the man stumbling backwards with a look alone.

“I don’t like being lied to.” John grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt. “There is very much a problem here. You made a deal with Mr. Van der Linde that your shelves would only be stocked by him.”

He shoved the man into the wall, took a swig of the rum, then threw it to the floor. If Arthur wasn’t frozen by shock, his mouth would be down by the broken glass. “That sure as shit ain’t ours!”

“I’m just trying to make a living, sir! I didn’t mean nothing by it! I thought—I thought your friend here was a cop. I didn’t mean any disrespect!”

“Didn’t mean any disrespect?” John barked out a harsh laugh. “You double-crossed us first chance you got!”

“Some of them O’Driscolls showed up offering to step in on account of those raids. I thought you boys were done for!”

“Well, we ain’t! Where are those shipments coming from?”

“How should I—” John grabbed him again. “—It’s the last train on Wednesdays and Saturdays! I don’t from where though!”

“You better not be lying to me and you better not say a word of this to anyone.” He got real close to the manager’s face. “‘Cause I’ll come back for you. You got that?”

“Where did _that_ come from?” Arthur asked once they were back outside.

“Worked, didn’t it?” Smug smirk now gone, John hastily put his sunglasses back on and tilted his gray hat low. Was he expecting a pat on the head or something? “Sorry, I was just…tryin’ to act like those gangsters from that movie we saw.”

“You were a couple shades scarier than those mugs. Maybe you oughta talk to one of them film producers over on Main. See if they’re lookin’ for a handsome villain.”

“Only if you play the part of the hero. I’d let Sheriff Morgan slap cuffs on me any day.”

Thinking about the pair he had on him, heat crept up the back of his neck. Naturally that was when Charles and Sadie rounded the corner. Too flustered to speak, he let John excitedly rattle off what they had learned.

“By train?” Charles frowned. “That changes things.”

They blinked in confusion, forcing Sadie to spell it out. “If they came by car, we could just run ‘em off the road. There’ll be plenty of O’Driscolls on the ground here to distribute the alcohol throughout the city. It’ll be hard to grab one of those bastards without another bastard seeing.”

Any trouble and a few phone calls could make their job a lot harder. Colm knew a rescue mission was coming but not when.

Charles glanced around like he was expecting someone to say something obvious. He was disappointed. “So…let’s not grab one here.”

\--

Scrunched up in bed with his journal on his knee, Arthur sketched how the moonlight fell down the slope of John’s back as he slept. Hair finally dry. They had gotten separate hotel rooms but for some reason John thought it would be wise to break in while he was showering and pull back the curtain to say hello. Arthur nearly had a heat attack and instinctively turned the hose on the intruder.

It was go-the-fuck-to-sleep o’clock in the morning but his brain didn’t care. Too preoccupied with all the things he didn’t want to think about. How his sketch left out the trace of the rope and the shadows under John’s eyes. Abigail blinking rapidly as she shoved him behind closed doors so their son wouldn’t see his injuries. The hotel murders and how he hadn’t come forward. Tilly and Albert both claiming he was supposed to be smarter than this after explaining why he was heading out of town.

Then there was Molly.

“Did Dutch do that to him?” she had asked, laying on the couch with the black fabric of her evening gown spilling down and puddling on the floor like tar.

“It was Micah.” Arthur shut the door to muffle the blaring jazz, presently doing a terrible job at concealing Abigail and John’s argument. Good thing Uncle had taken Jack to the park. Each high note made her wince. “Molly…”

“Don’t.” She curled her legs to make room, slow and easy like a snake coiling. All the venom was in her eyes though not her mouth. “I don’t want your pity. _I’m fine_.”

“You’re fine? That why Uncle found you still drinkin’ yourself to oblivion at Beecher’s by last call?” Molly hit him with another glare instead of the slap he expected but it crumbled like the dried mascara streaked down her face. “The heat ain’t gonna cool off anytime soon. The smartest thing you can do is stay out of it.”

“Dutch’ll come lookin’ for me.” She grabbed the aspirin and glass of water left out by Abigail with a smile so broken he couldn’t piece it back together to figure out whether this inevitability was desired or loathed.

“Don’t mean you gotta be here waitin’ for him.”

Both her eyebrows shot up and Arthur didn’t blame either one. He had to speak up though. The whole mess reminded him of that day on the beat when a drunk driver veered onto a sidewalk, scattering pedestrians like a bullet through a flock of birds. One fatality, hit head-on, left him and his fellow officers scratching their heads. Had she simply failed to move in time or had she stared death in the eye and welcomed it? A wise man would steer clear but damn it he could see the headlights shining and Arthur so badly wanted to push Molly out of the way.

“What? You’ll get me out?” She set down the empty glass and laughed without humor, frowning up at the picture of John and Abigail standing before Beecher’s Hope. “Please. You can’t even get yourself out.”

Arthur left soon after but not before slipping his business card into her pearl-beaded clutch.

Just in case.

A tortured moan from John brought him back to the hotel room. He was clawing at his throat, eyeballs moving rapidly under his lids as he mumbled Arthur’s name over and over. Guess the mystery of why John was so tired lately had been solved.

“S’alright, darlin.” Arthur shook John’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

He did. Violently. Knocked Arthur’s hands away and scrambled to the edge of the mattress. Gaze wild and darting, John didn’t seem to recognize where he was until it settled on Arthur’s own.

“Sorry,” he blurted out, face scrunched up with shame.

“Don’t be. I wasn’t sleeping.”

A long moment passed before John scooted back over. The whole of which Arthur spent cursing himself. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I never should’ve—”

“Don’t.” John pressed his fingertips to Arthur’s mouth. “It’s not your fault. None of this is.”

Arthur didn’t believe that but the urge to protest died when John replaced his fingers with his lips.

\--

“No way Capone is gonna get sent over for tax evasion.” Below the bridge and face lost under his hat, John was stretched out across the backseat of the Packard lent by Hosea. “I’ll laugh myself into an early grave if that happens.”

Sadie lowered her binoculars, revealing the circular indents they had left. “Well, you best pick out a plot. Financial crimes stick easier than murder.”

“Capone can’t make the evidence disappear like he could a witness,” Charles added, nudging Arthur who was nodding off.

He needed another coffee. Or three. Frankly, Arthur was surprised he hadn’t already fallen sleep and then right off Benedict Pass. The four were waiting for the train to emerge from the setting sun that had outlined the clouds in gold and cast the sky in pinks and oranges. Get on. Grab one. Get off. That was the plan. Avoiding witnesses was the hard part. To help with that Arthur had suggested the stretch of land between here and Mercer Station, near barren and bone-dry as ever. But close enough to Armadillo that they had to be on board by now.

Sadie shoved her binoculars into her large purse. “What does the _lawman_ think?”

“Lawman? Ain’t much of one these days.” Arthur mulled over the question. “If he’s smart, he’ll take a plea deal. Otherwise they’ll make an example outta him.”

“Gangsters don’t take plea deals.”

“You some sorta expert on criminals, Marston?”

“He’s probably picked up on a few things,” Charles said, “given the company he’s been keeping.”

Arthur smiled in spite of himself. “Can’t argue with that.”

“They better not nab Colm for something like that,” Sadie grumbled. “I’d have to scam my way into the prison to kill him myself. He deserves the chair, not a couple years behind bars.”

“I’m surprised you don’t work for Dutch.” John lifted his hat. “From what Arthur’s told me, he hates Colm as much as you.”

“I couldn’t betray Hosea or the folk I’ve come to know.” Sadie gave Charles half a smirk which he completed. “Besides, Dutch has been after him and Colm forever. How much headway has he made? They’re too strong. The law can’t or won’t touch ‘em. Even if they did, they’d never hire a _woman_ to help. I want _all_ them bastards dead. Not just Colm. Way I figure? This is the best of my limited options.”

“You might get your wish with the way Hosea’s been lately,” Arthur said dryly. “I still don’t know why he encouraged this wild goose chase. He has enough going on without stirring up more shit.”

The comment lingered like a nasty odor until Charles tried his hand at clearing the air. “I think Hosea’s acting with the future in mind. A future he’s not part of. I don’t know if this is the best way to go about it but trying to preserve peace in the long run is a worthwhile endeavor.”

The purse of his lips promised that whatever else was coming, Arthur wouldn’t like it. Trust Charles to try to better word something that would be hard to hear.

“It seems like he wants to neutralize his two biggest threats so his successor doesn’t have to.”

The hot air building up in his chest solidified and settled into a heavy weight in his stomach, leaving Arthur plain nauseous when the sleek passenger train finally dotted the skyline. Arthur tried to push everything that wasn’t the task at hand out of his mind. On their disguises went. A pair of black bandanas while Sadie used John’s sunglasses. With her teal scarf wrapped around her no-nonsense bob, she looked like a reclusive actress set to join two outlaws on a heist.

“We gotta land on the baggage cars so no one will hear us.” Arthur held out his hand to Sadie. “When I let go, wait a second, then jump. Charles, you do the same with her.”

He gave a nod. “Looks like a full train. We’ll need to be extra cautious.”

They both looked at Sadie. “Don’t give me that!” She snatched Charles’s hand. “I can be discreet.”

Thick black smoke swallowed them whole when the train rushed under their dangling legs. Holding his breath and hat, Arthur jumped from the rusted iron beam. Not a long fall but they had to grasp the steel beneath to keep from sliding off. Sadie dropped down onto a platform to begin her walk through the passenger coaches. Meanwhile Arthur and Charles focused on the baggage and mail cars, empty save for a clerk sorting letters, before climbing back up. Rounder than the boxcars of yesteryear they ran single file. Funny how muscles could also hold onto memories years later. Arthur’s feet stayed light when traversing the rail cars. Despite the familiarity, he couldn’t escape a strange tightness in his chest. It was sort of like realizing one had grown only after slipping on a favorite jacket and finding it snug.

Sadie had beat them to the dining car. “No luck either?” Her chipper tone confused him until he noticed the pair of fancy green Pullmans ahead. “Funny having two sleepers on a train that terminates in Armadillo.”

Arthur jumped over and climbed down the steel rungs along the side. When he leaned towards the window, he got distracted by the dust spewing from the tires of the Packard. Arm resting along the windowsill, swerving around boulders and shrubs one-handed, John was chasing the train’s tail like he had a fleet of cops on his ass. Maybe deep down he still was a lawman. The desire to take away John’s license was overwhelming.

Inside the Pullman all the beds were folded up, concealed by shiny wooden wall panels with intricately carved designs. No crates pretending not to be holding alcohol laid about. Yet the olive-green walls matched the upholstery, including the seat of the chair propped up under the first doorknob. Arthur slid Micah’s stiletto knife into the window near the latch and flipped the lock. He opened the window. One. Two. Three male voices all laughing about something. Held up as many fingers, then drew his pistol. Sadie climbed down to the first platform while Charles waited above.

Their laughter became harsh whispers when she knocked. The back of a man came into Arthur’s view as he removed the chair. “You lost, love?”

“Oi!” Another came over. “Get her outta here.”

“Ain’t you a friendly bunch.” Sadie scratched her nose. They were armed. Arthur gave Charles a nod and he vanished. “You mean to tell me this isn’t the smoking car?”

The first one spoke again. “Run along, girlie. You can smoke anywhere on this train.”

“Anywhere?” Sadie leaned against the wall casually, digging into her purse. “How ‘bout here then?”

Charles kicked open the other door. The two O’Driscolls spun around. Sadie had silencers pressed into the back of their necks before they could draw. “You boys better play nice ‘cause I certainly don’t.”

The third O’Driscoll flung himself into a seating booth and popped up brandishing a shotgun. Too bad Arthur and Charles already had him at gunpoint. Skinny, heavily freckled, unimpressive in size and stature, he couldn’t be older than Sean and was likely little more than cannon fodder for Colm. “Who the fuck are you people?”

“Does it matter?” Charles advanced slowly. “No one needs to die. Lower your weapons.”

Various guns were set down and kicked away as Arthur climbed in. Halfway through the window, Arthur remembered the missing alcohol. Being valuable property, they couldn’t have left it too far away nor unsupervised. His eyes fell to where the sun was stretching a thin shadow in through the doorway behind Charles.

He landed without an ounce of grace on the Persian rug. “Behind you!”

Charles swung his arm back and fired. He got to his feet in time to watch a man, jaw agape with the lower half missing, topple over the platform rail. Now only stacks of crates occupied the second sleeper car. Two more muted shots rang out. The young O’Driscoll backed up into the wall staring down in horror at how Sadie had made good on her promise.

“Is that what you call discreet, woman?”

Sadie rolled her eyes at Arthur. “We only need _one_.”

No time was wasted. After tossing the two corpses off and rearranging the furniture to hide the gore, Arthur pulled the emergency break. They jumped while the train was still slowing. Bound and gagged, the O’Driscoll was thrown in the back the moment John pulled up. Once Arthur hopped in, they drove hard into the red that was now seeping up from the horizon.

“I’m gonna ask you some questions and you’re gonna answer them.” Sadie retrieved a knife from her boot. “Otherwise, it’ll be up to you how many fingers you wanna sacrifice along the way.”

His terrified huffs of breath over the gag only grew louder as Charles grabbed his arms to keep him still. When she removed it, the man spat out, “I ain’t sayin’ shit! You think I don’t know how this goes? You’re gonna kill me regardless, you crazy bitch!”

“There goes two fingers,” Arthur murmured.

“I was thinkin’ three.”

Not realizing they were joking—well, Arthur was—John blanched. Train no longer in sight and surrounded by empty desert, he slowed to a stop and draped his arms along the second windshield. “How about if he tells us where their hideouts are and they turn out to be true, we let him go?”

“You gonna drive all over the state checking them out? Those two blokes will die before you get there.” He laughed bitterly at John’s stunned face. “Think you’re so bloody smart, huh? I know why you’re here. Colm is waiting for you!”

Swanson and Strauss being alive? A welcomed surprise. Colm being with them? That might be a problem. Sadie got real still and the O’Driscoll must’ve sensed the danger. He stupidly tried to escape by kicking her shins and swinging his head back. Charles grabbed his skull before it could smack into his nose and Sadie seized the man’s bound hands, forcing them down so she could hold the knife to his throat.

“Th-there’s one south of the lake! Colm’s at the other one. Rattlesnake Hollow!”

He began pleading to be let go but Arthur spoke over him. “Neither of those are on the train line. Where’d you come from?”

The knife went back into her boot. Sadie threw open the door and dragged the O’Driscoll out by his shirt. He jerked and twisted. Kept trying to hit her while yelling for help that wouldn’t come. When she let go, he got his legs underneath him, only to get kicked in the back. Down he went. Got a mouthful of sand too. He spat it out while staring up at her gun through his stringy blonde hair.

“Ever been up to Ambarino?”

“W-What? What are you talking about? It’s Gaptooth Breach! Alright? I came from Gaptooth Breach! Don’t! Plea—” Sadie shut him up with a bullet to the crown of his head.

“What if he was lying?” Arthur asked, even though it made sense as the location. The abandoned mine was close to both the train line and the Sea of Coronado.

“You don’t lie when you’re in the middle of pissin’ yourself.” She refused to meet their concerned stares, dropping down and gripping onto the seat beneath her. “Can you get us there?”

A wide-eyed John nodded silently, key missing the ignition twice before it went in.

\--

Gaptooth Breach looked about a smart a place to sneak into as a war zone, what with the armed soldiers milling about dilapidated buildings, but that sure didn’t stop them. They split into pairs, agreeing to meet back at the car, hidden nearby in the hills. Down below, men were pushing carts holding huge barrels of water along the tracks that rolled out of the mine like a serpent’s tongue. It ran up the slope past the shaft tower, now permanently missing its guard.Long after midnight the air was crisp but he could hardly feel it. Nothing warmed the blood like being pissed off. Arthur wasn’t happy about his tag-along but John never let common sense stop him from doing whatever he wanted.

Stairs wrapped around their next destination, a three-story warehouse. They crept inside and found nothing. Except an old desk covered with sketches of the mine and a foul stench seeping up through the floorboards. Not sure what they would find, Arthur tucked John behind him and they slowly made their way down. Chains hanging from the wall shone in the moonlight, holding up the limp arms of what looked like two corpses. Until they opened their eyes.

“Strauss? Swanson?”

The shorter one tilted his head back to keep the cracked spectacles on the tip of his broken nose. “Who wants to know?” Despite how traveling over a parched throat made his voice raw, the accent was clear and gave his identity away.

John slipped out from behind. “That’s Arthur Morgan. I’m John Marston. We’re gonna get you out.”

You would’ve thought he had waved a magic wand and erased the past week with how much they lit up. Sporting nasty cuts and bruises wherever any bit of skin showed through their torn clothes, stained with sweat and blood, Arthur felt like an absolute bastard for initially wanting to leave them to their fates. Swanson, a redhead with gray streaks in his frazzled hair looked a bit worse off. Hands trembling something fierce it was hard for John to grasp his shackles.

Swanson licked his lips, split in three places. “You wouldn’t happen to have—”

“Water is the only drink _you_ need right now,” Strauss gave his suddenly heartbroken companion a one-eyed glare. The other was swollen shut. “We didn’t expect Dutch to send you, Herr Morgan. Are the others here?”

Arthur grabbed the metal cuff around Strauss’s bruised wrist. “No, it’s a long story. I’ll—”

“I was starting to think we were forgotten men!”

John shushed Swanson which set off a flurry of apologies, which got him shushed again.

“Dutch? Forget a slight against him? Ain’t a chance,” Arthur teased.

“I was referring to our heavenly Father but I must confess I was having my doubts about him too.” Swanson frowned. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Arthur would have chuckled if footsteps outside hadn’t startled him. When he rushed over to the window, he almost tripped over the coats and items strewn across the floor. Three men with rifles slung over their backs were approaching. Arthur had to think quick. They would kill the hostages and probably John too if they were caught.

“Thought you didn’t trust me with a gun?” John snapped when Arthur pressed his pistol into his hands. Brows bent. Jaw clenched. Already getting angry before anything had happened.

“John…”

“Arthur, no.”

“I’m gonna create a distraction.” John shook his head and tried to grab him but was pushed away. “When the coast is clear, get them out of here. Stay with them and please, _please_ don’t follow me.”

John cursed him, then immediately shifted into calling after him in frantic whispers. Arthur still left, hurrying out onto the balcony then down the slope towards a decrepit shack. Once in cover, he grabbed the rifle off his back and used the scope to pick off the first, second, and—shit—the third one dodged in time. Only got out one cry for help before he went down too. Desperate to put distance between him and the warehouse, Arthur took off again. The noise drew O’Driscolls out of the mine and from the surrounding buildings, forcing him behind a boulder.

Back pressed against the cold stone, Arthur took a deep breath and yelled, “That the best you can do?”

While scattering those who got too close, another shack caught his eye. On a scale of one to suicidal, it was about an eight but he needed better cover. Bullets pierced the ground near his feet but Arthur ran and ran and ran. Up the steps. Reached for the doorknob. The door was ripped back and a double-barrel shotgun greeted him. He almost wished it went off.

“My, my. Arthur Morgan. This is quite the surprise.” One would’ve thought he had just been served Dutch’s head on a platter with the way Colm O’Driscoll’s lips cracked into a smile. “Where are the others? Of Dutch’s sons, you weren’t the one I was expecting.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

That went over about as well as expected. Pain exploded behind his eyes when he got whacked across the face with the shotgun. Several hands seized and searched him while he was on the ground dazed. Arthur got to suffer the indignity of having his own handcuffs snapped around his wrists.

“Find the rest and bring them to me. Except Bell. Shoot him.” Colm pointed at one of his henchmen. “You. Go deal with the other hostages. I have no use for them now.”

“No!” Arthur thrashed but all it got him was a kick to the back of his knees which sent him down.

“Why don’t we go on a tour of the site?” Colm twisted his fingers into Arthur’s hair, forcing him to look up. “Take your mind off things.”

By tour he meant his henchmen dragging Arthur by gunpoint into the mine. Around and around, following the rail tracks and hanging light bulbs that ran through the winding tunnels. Empty sacks of barley and corn lay by wooden pillars and underneath crisscrossed planks along the rock walls. Passed by the mine shaft lift along the way. That’d be his best chance at escaping. Colm wouldn’t shut up about looking into new real estate now that several properties had become available. Arthur barely listened. Too caught up by the smell of yeast, heavy in the heated air. It reminded him of those afternoons where he’d play with Isaac while Eliza was busy baking bread.

They brought him to the core, a hollow that parts of the tunnels overlooked that held their four copper stills. All large enough to hold several hundred gallons. At least a dozen grunts stopped their work to circle around as he was handcuffed to one of the overhead pipes between two stills. The heat radiating off them was immense. Sweat was already starting to form along his skin. Occasionally bits of debris sprinkled down from the ceiling. Maybe if Arthur was lucky, the whole place would come crashing down, sparing the others from having to rescue his dumb ass and from burying him.

“Does Hosea know you’re going behind his back to help out dear old Dutch?”

“You think I’d be here if he did?”

“Fair enough.” Colm got far too close. “I was hoping to capture someone that Dutch would surrender his territory along the Dakota for. But now? Now I can dream bigger.” He poked Arthur’s fresh bruise, causing him to wince. “What would Hosea give up for his pride and joy?”

“Nothing. He’ll just do to you what he did to Dutch.”

“He can try. I have more friends than him. Higher-ups who want them both gone. Especially Dutch. Always causing problems, that Dutch. If Hosea had a backbone, he would’ve killed him ages ago but he’s _soft_. That’s why he’s so easy to provoke.”

Colm yanked Arthur’s shirt out of his pants then began unbuttoning it, snickering when he tried to squirm away. “Don’t move. Unless you want to find out how hot those stills are ahead of schedule.”

Everyone laughed when Arthur, now wide-eyed with panic, desperately tugged at his handcuffs and tried to use his body weight to break the pipe. No luck.

“I’m curious.” Colm made scissor fingers to one of his henchmen after pinching the fabric of Arthur’s undershirt. “Did Hosea go after Dutch because his boy got scratched by a wayward bullet or because my boys taught a certain traitor a lesson?”

“You son of a bitch!” Blinded by rage over Kieran, Arthur tried to headbutt and kick at Colm, only to get a fist in the stomach, knocking the air out of him. Colm thought this was hysterical, laughing and seizing Arthur’s chin as he gasped for air.

“Look at you! All fire and wasted potential.” He tilted his head side-to-side as if inspecting a horse. “You could make so much money if you worked for me instead of pretending to be a good boy. You were born to be a killer, Arthur.”

Sparks flew from the handcuff chain. A perfect shot just above his wrist. Arthur punched Colm so hard in the face the bones and cartilage of his nose crunched under his knuckles. He fell back against the closest still, crying out as his hands and the back of his head were burned by the heated copper. The sniper continued to fire, dropping the O’Driscolls closest to Arthur one-by-one. Some tried to run but were blocked as more gunmen came into the room.

Sadie came out with a Tommy gun on the opposite side from one of the tunnels above. “I’ll kill all you bastards!”

Remembering Owanjila, Arthur dashed into the first tunnel he could as she rained down hellfire, arms shaking from the strong recoil. This long straight path wasn’t the way he came. Hopefully it still led back to the lift. Without a weapon if Arthur came across any O’Driscolls, he was be done for. The rattling of gunfire echoed all around him, drowning out much of the furious yells and screams until, as expected, someone hit a still. The loud bang set off the others and the force of explosions had the walls shaking. Arthur dropped to his knees, covering his head as the mine quaked. Clouds of debris came from all angles. All the lights went out. In total darkness and covered in dirt, Arthur struggled to stand up, coughing until his throat was raw.

“Arthur!”

He spun around, half hoping he was hearing things. Nope. Heard it again. Where was John’s voice coming from? Arthur tried to follow the sound as John called all their names. Navigating uneven terrain in pitch-black was slow-going, even with a hand on the rough walls.

Gunfire flashed in the dark just ahead. Arthur froze. The rapid bangs were mixed with laughter, rolling wheels, and footsteps coming up fast. Someone crashed into Arthur. They sputtered something in Gaelic and when he failed to respond, the O’Driscoll grabbed his arms.

“Thought you could escape, huh?”

A lantern cut through the dark like a train at night. The beam of light turned the O’Driscoll into a silhouette right before he was shot in the back. He slumped down, groaning and writhing in agony. Sadie was all smiles despite her bloody leg, holding a lantern while sitting beside her Tommy gun in a mine cart. She hastily retrieved one of her pistols and executed the O’Driscoll. Charles was on the back of the cart, a still smoking rifle in his hands. Caked and covered, all three were in dire need of a bath.

“That’s twice you’ve saved me within the same half hour.”

“You’re becoming a regular damsel in distress,” Charles replied.

Arthur nodded, then eyed Sadie. “You get Colm?”

“Not sure. I hope not. I hope he got burned alive when those stills blew.” Sadie patted the side of the cart. “Hop on.”

Coast cleared and with the tracks running downhill, the three rode the cart right back to the mine shaft. John was at the top and slapped a relieved hand to his forehead upon seeing them, then went to turn on the lift, bringing them back to the surface. Several O’Driscolls shot dead were strewn about at the top. So much for breathing in that fresh night air. Another surprise? The car was there. Strauss and Swanson were in the back, alive and not _well_, both needed medical attention, but they weren’t dead. So that was something. Arthur didn’t get a chance to ask John about any of it, only scarcely avoiding a fist to the face by ducking in time.

“Gotta be faster than that, Marston.” Practically shaking with anger, John looked ready to toss Arthur back into the mine. “Yell at me later, alright?”

“Oh, I will. You self-sacrificing bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strauss and Swanson will have a proper appearance in the next chapter. Since the previous one and the chapters coming up are kind of heavy, I decided to have one last fun one (well, I hope it was fun). Apparently I forgot what genre I was supposed to be writing. 
> 
> Notes:  
1\. Armadillo was based on Dodge City which experienced economic growth during the late 1920s and early 1930s. It helped the city ["weather several years of depression without serious consequences"](https://www.kshs.org/kansapedia/dodge-city-ford-county/12038) partially thanks to being a popular film location for westerns. By 1931, westerns had already been run into the ground by Hollywood and were considered low-brow "b-movie" material until [Stagecoach (1939) revitalized the genre.](https://www.filmsite.org/stagec.html)  
  
2\. Here's the [1929 Packard 640](https://classiccars.com/listings/view/1354998/1929-packard-640-for-sale-in-saratoga-springs-new-york-12866) that Hosea lent them.  
  
3\. Re: Al Capone. The famous gangster initially took a plea deal for two and a half years, but later on when the judge said he wasn't bound by it, [Capone changed his plea to not guilty.](https://www.fbi.gov/history/famous-cases/al-capone) He was sentenced to eleven years, serving seven.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for all of your wonderful support for this story. <3


	24. Bribes and Debts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discovery by John sheds light on Dutch's financial situation, resulting in a series of revelations and new leads for Arthur to pursue. Meanwhile a pair of troubling phone calls leave him unsettled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with this story and all of your support. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

If pressed, Arthur would admit that sometimes it paid off having a wealthy lover. Literally. John bribed the entire Plainview Medical Center to keep quiet after they tore into the parking lot just after dawn—not hard to guess who was behind the wheel—toting half-truths and suspect injuries. No questions were asked even when the massacre at Gaptooth Breach started making headlines. Sure, John loved to spoil others if Abigail’s fine furs, Jack’s mountain of toys, and his insistence on paying for everything were anything to go by. Maybe the hush money was nothing to him. Arthur had never reached in to see just how deep those pockets went. Regardless that was a lot of dough to fork over for folks you don’t know well. Not that Arthur said anything. If the temperature of John’s shoulder dropped any further the pair of them might get frostbite.

“Gimme the keys.”

Arthur almost threw the door shut in his face. After three days of silence _that_ was how he chose to break it? He thought better of it though, closing the door behind him. Thanks to his three-day-old scowl and bruises from sleepless nights, John looked like a racoon that was two seconds from hissing. At least white was finally bleeding through the burst vessels and the mark around his neck had faded into a yellowish-green.

“What for?”

“Driving.” Foot propped up against wall covered in peeling teal paint, John took one last drag before crushing the dying cigarette under his heel. “What the hell else for?”

When Arthur didn’t move, John decided to fight dirty rather than smart. He slid his arms around him in a low slung hug, pressing flush as if proximity would disguise how he was digging into his back pockets. Arthur’s grin was lecherous, letting John think he had won when he fished out the keys. Only to latch onto his wrists at the last second.

“Where we headed, Marston?”

Finding himself trapped, those dark eyes flared like a spark on a too-short fuse. “Let go.”

Once again Arthur didn’t move and he went off with a bang, kissing him hard enough to knock everything that wasn’t John out of his head. The door rattled as his back collided with it. Three days was too long to be deprived of this and a moan echoed up from the depths of him as John licked into his mouth with impatience. There was a hint of that cheap coffee from the town’s sole diner, where they had shared meals in silence pretending they weren’t crazy about each other. Still wouldn’t let go though no matter how badly he wanted to stumble backwards into his room and onto his bed. John was John though and had to ruin a good thing. When he managed to squirm free, Arthur wrapped an arm around his lithe frame and seized his hair so he couldn’t escape, pulling back just enough that their lips parted with a smack. The keys jingled when they hit the pavement.

“You’re a confusing bastard, y’know that?”

“And here I was thinking my intentions were pretty clear,” John sneered, rocking his hips forward for good measure.

“Tryin’ to distract me? Yeah, that much was obvious.” Arthur gave no quarter, pulling his hair a bit harder to halt his writhing. Couldn’t help but smile though at how his mouth and jaw burned from the scrape of rough stubble. A razor hadn’t known their skin lately. “Try smearin’ Novocaine on your lips next time, that’ll help.”

“You think you’re so damn funny.”

“I try.” Arthur released John and was quick to step on the keys. No way John was driving. “Whether I succeed depends on who’s listening.”

Not exactly the brightest of ideas to go anywhere with John when he looked ready to spit fire but Arthur had to get out for a bit. Somehow Plainview, a blink-and-you’d-miss-it sort of town, with its wide open spaces and postcard-worthy views was more stifling than a large one where skyscrapers kept folks trapped like prison bars. The tiny community built around oil mining was all fine and dandy until the price plummeted to a dime a barrel. If things kept on, it’d dry up like the old rigs to the south. Most of the young folks had left for the greener pastures of concrete jungles, leaving behind mostly old timers with little to do but gossip and spy on passers-through.

They didn’t go far. Just far enough that two men could sit too close on the cliffside without being disturbed. Thighs pressed together their legs dangled over the San Luis; a river turned into wine by the setting sun. John stared at Mexico stretched out opposite them like it was a dream that faded the more you thought about it. Did he still want to run away? The question never came. Rather than talk, John plucked long blades of grass and tore away at them until there was nothing left. Used to fireworks, this quiet seething not unlike his own was new to Arthur. He didn’t look forward to the inevitable explosion that would come from bottling up all his nastiness inside.

“C’mon.” Arthur gave John a blade to destroy. “What’s got you all twisted up?”

He snatched it out of his hands and muttered after too long a moment. “You. You and your goddamn patience and being far nicer than I deserve.”

“Somehow I get the feelin’ not enough people _have_ been nice to you.”

His fingers began striping away faster, the discarded bits became lost in the breeze. “You don’t get to do that.” Another piece gone. “You don’t get to risk your life to save mine. Mine ain’t worth _half_ of yours.”

“You might wanna check your math, Marston. ‘Cause you’re wrong.”

“I know my own value,” he snapped. “I also know that you’d’ve been better off if we never met. How many times have you gotten hurt or nearly died since March?”

“I don’t keep count. That sorta thing don’t matter.”

John threw the grass at him and tried to storm off. Didn’t get far before Arthur grabbed his arm. “‘Course it matters! _You_ matter. Not just to me but to a whole lot of people.”

“If I had stayed, the O’Driscolls would’ve killed you three.”

“We could’ve shot Strauss and Swanson free, then shot our way out.”

“You’re no gunslinger—” John got fired up to retort but Arthur talked over him. “—and I’m no miracle worker. They weren’t in no shape to fight. Charles and Sadie may not have been able to get there in time.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I don’t but one man tryin’ to protect three aren’t odds I’m willin’ to risk your life on.”

“That’s the problem! Your first instinct is to protect everyone else ‘cept yourself and it’s gonna get you killed.” John pulled free, only to grasp onto Arthur’s shirt. “I know that’s just how you are and I’m not askin’ you to change but you can’t be a hero when Dutch comes after us again. You _know_ he will. Especially now that he’s near broke—”

“How do you know that?”

Shame-faced, John looked away. “Well, um, that pile of clothing you tripped over in the warehouse? Strauss’s coat was in there. I found a ledger inside. It’s in the back along with your gun.” Arthur scowled before retreating to the Packard. “I’ve been meanin’ to tell you. Honest!”

Arthur didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss John or toss him off the cliff. Waiting three days to share something like this? Really? John wasn’t sorry in the slightest, placing his hands on his cocked hips and glaring at Arthur like _he_ was the wronged party.

“Guess it don’t matter. I’ll just give Strauss the third before we leave.” Rather than open the trunk, Arthur sat on it. “John, I can’t promise you the things you wanna hear without being a liar.”

“Then don’t say anything,” he replied, still too mad to do anything but snap at him. “I’ll just be selfish for both of us.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Nothin’.” John had a determined glint in his eye and Arthur didn’t like it one bit. “Not yet, at least.”

\--

“Hold, please!”

Waiting for the operator to connect him to Hosea, Arthur breathed deeply and got a mouthful of stale smoke and sweat. Both clung to the air with the same hold they had on the bed and curtains. Didn’t make a lick of difference that the window was open. Through it, Arthur could see the giant arrow pointing at the motel bearing the owner’s name. Eli’s written in light bulbs, many burned out, above a forever flashing vacancy sign.

He drummed his fingers along the ledger resting on his thigh. Faded green with a cracked red spine, it didn’t look like much but it held a year’s worth of income and expenses by the Van der Linde gang. Not to mention a few surprises.

Apparently Dutch _was_ capable of keeping his distance. He had been popping in and out of West Elizabeth far earlier than Arthur and Hosea had realized. Beecher’s Hope was the tip-off. In the summer of ’29, the newly-hired Molly made Dutch a regular until his spat with John. Curiously, starting around this time there were a number of items scratched out beyond recognition. Seventeen monthly payments, it seemed, ending in December 1930. They added roughly $42,000 to the mob’s pocket. Didn’t help. Since last fall red overwhelmed the black. Despite his costly feud with Colm, things were financially sound until October 1st. The same day Micah was arrested for a triple homicide up in New Hanover. Coincidence? Hell no.

“Everything alright?” Hosea asked, hand muffling the receiver briefly. Arthur still heard the rattling cough behind it. “No trouble, I hope?”

“Nah, nothing like that.” Arthur kept his voice low. John was sprawled out and sleeping behind him. “A pack of hoodlums couldn’t stir up trouble here.”

“Well, you’d know since you were one.”

Arthur lifted his Colt on the nightstand to place the ledger underneath it, smiling until he realized his pistol was lighter than normal. “How you feelin’?”

“Mostly tired and annoyed that I’m tired after spending much of the day in bed. Right now I’m curious more than anything.”

Get on with it. “Charles and I were talkin’ and—” Arthur ejected the magazine and found five cartridges missing. What the hell? “—he’s got this strange idea that I’m set to inherit, well, everything after you…y’know.”

Hosea was quiet then laughed out a wheeze that turned into a harsh cough. “Of course you inherit everything, Arthur. Who else would? Sure, I’ve set money aside for certain charities, some for people I’m fond of, but the bulk of it, my house and business are yours.”

The hand holding the phone fell to the mattress. Funny how a million dollars could feel like a kick in the teeth. Probably more if you combined all his assets. More than he’d ever want or need. He’d prefer to put the money to good use rather than let it collect cobwebs in a bank account. If Arthur were a different man, one who wanted power or still got a thrill out of besting the law then maybe being placed at the helm of the Matthews Outfit might seem like a blessing. Instead it felt like Hosea had attached a ball and chain to his ankle and shoved him into the ocean.

“Still with me, Arthur? It’d put a real damper on my day if you had a heart attack.”

“Hosea, no.” He set the gun down, brushing John’s hand away when it reached for him. “I…I don’t mean to sound like an ungrateful son of a bitch but I left that life. At least I tried. I ain’t got much use for that kind of money neither.”

“What do you think Dutch will do when I’m dead?” His tone brooked no argument. “It’s not just territory he’s after. He wants you back. Not by his side but under his thumb. I want you to be safe when I’m gone, Arthur.”

The weigh of his words hung above like the blade of a guillotine.

“There’s more, of course. You know this business inside and out. My employees respect you. Despite my joking over the years and whatever you may think, you _are_ smart and I know you will make the right decisions. You understand the futility of war and cannot be intimidated which is crucial when dealing with O’Driscolls, Bronte, or the law. There’s no one that I trust more than you.”

Despite his growing dread, Arthur didn’t have much to say as Hosea started explaining about how the transition of power would work. His thoughts whirled around and around and the only thing that kept him anchored was John, the warmth of his chest against his back as he hugged him, resting his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder until he hung up. He could use a drink. Too bad they were in a dry town.

“He’s been planning this for awhile.”

“We’ll find a way out,” John murmured, kissing the nape of his neck. “I dunno how but we will.”

\--

Swanson perked up when he appeared in the doorway. “Have you read the Bible, Mr. Morgan?”

Torn between the truth and not wanting to start this conversation off on an offensive note, Arthur hesitated both in movement and speech. “Not, uh, recently.”

Bones splinted, wounds treated, and nearing the end of their intravenous therapy for dehydration, Strauss and Swanson had escaped death’s clutches but not its reach. Fighting off infection meant running mild fevers and soon they would be transferred to the hospital in Armadillo. When they recovered, Dutch could collect them. Sadie was with the doctor presently and once she got the clear he’d wash his hands of this and go home. To hell with orders.

“That is a rather personal question,” Strauss admonished from behind his newspaper. Colm’s face, or what it looked like before Arthur had rearranged it, glared at him from the front page. Missing and hopefully dead. He’d hate for that old cockroach to have crawled out of the ashes and into hiding.

“Sorry,” Swanson said sheepishly. “It’s just I find myself drawing strength from His word lately and it’s been a long time since I could say that. When I was chained to that wall, I—sorry,” he laughed, “there I go rambling again.”

“Ramble away.” Arthur pulled up a chair in between their beds. “If some good came from all this, I’m glad for it.”

“Well,” Swanson paused, seemingly taken aback by his interest. “I had time to think. _Really think_. About my myself, my life. How in spite of everything I’ve lost I didn’t want to lose my life as well…and then I didn’t. Now I find myself surrounded by temptation, and for the first time in ages, I don’t want to give in. I don’t want to…throw away this gift, this second chance. The Book of James tells us, “Resist the devil and he will flee from you,” and I know I’ve only held off for three days but—”

“You can do four. Hell, I bet you can go a whole week.”

He meant it. Certain things had been easy to gleam. How Strauss had raised a brow when the Reverend turned down the doctor’s offer for morphine. How both knew who John was because Strauss had interrupted Swanson when he was about to ask for liquor. How they definitely knew who Charles and Sadie were because both clammed up in their presence.

“What brings you to our bedsides?” Strauss folded his newspaper neatly and passed it to Swanson. “Surely you’re not just here to check up on the Reverend’s sobriety?”

Another thing he had gleamed was that Strauss was a shrewd man and rightfully suspicious of Arthur’s motives. Though his pale skin was flushed from fever, he was sharp as ever.

“Curiosity. How’s it that you two escaped when the police came?”

“Oh.” Strauss relaxed against his propped up pillows. “Luck, really. The Reverend had wandered off in another drunken stupor.” Swanson opened the newspaper with a loud snap. “By the time I found him we could hear gunfire and thought we’d be better off hitchhiking to safety. You can guess who pulled up instead.”

“Well, that’s luck for you. Runs out when you need it most. Good thing it didn’t happen earlier.” Arthur reached behind and pulled the ledger out of his waistband. “Otherwise you might have forgotten to grab this before you left.”

Strauss reached for it then retracted his hand sharply as if burned by the realization that feigning ignorance would’ve been wiser.

“Quite the page-turner. Racketeering, extortion, bootlegging, to name a few. I imagine the cops would’ve loved to get their hands on this.”

“You’ll have to try harder than that, Herr Morgan. The threat of prison doesn’t scare me.”

“It should. Gettin’ out of jail requires money or men. Two things Dutch is short on as of late.”

Unable to keep up the charade that he was engrossed by a page full of ads, Swanson tossed the paper aside.

“If I didn’t tell the O’Driscolls anything, whose methods of extracting information were more persuasive than yours, what makes you think I’ll tell you anything?”

“Because if you don’t, your time at this clinic will be cut short.” John strolled into the room. “And you sure as shit won’t be going to the New Austin State Hospital. Not on my dime or Dutch’s since he can’t afford it.”

Unaware that John had already paid for everything, Strauss and Swanson practically aged before their eyes. Unease deepened the lines on their faces, stretching out from the corners of their mouths. The two looked at Arthur, whose lips had parted in feigned surprise, then at each other.

“Look, I’m a private detective, not a cop. Your crimes are no concern of mine.” Arthur flipped to October in the ledger. “I just wanna know how this sorry state of affairs happened.”

When neither spoke up, John did. “Despite everything, Detective Morgan doesn’t want to see Dutch behind bars. I don’t think your employer would be too happy if he knew you both didn’t try to help his son with that.”

Both gave him a loathsome stare. Using Dutch was a low blow but it got Strauss to open up, though with great hesitation. As if each word had to be pried out of his mouth with a pair of pliers. “A bootlegging business split across two non-attached states isn’t cost-effective. It forces us to transport product and capital back and forth along the Dakota, which brings us into conflict with the O’Driscolls.”

Dutch couldn’t transport alcohol through West Elizabeth. He had tried five years ago upon first settling around the region. Hosea put a swift end to it, forcing Dutch to rely on the waterways to get around him.

“On that day, we were transferring a fair amount of capital up the Dakota. State police and federal agents ambushed us north of Valentine. We suspect the O’Driscolls tipped them off. All the money was lost.”

“Along with several people,” Swanson added. “The Callanders. Sweet Jenny. Mr. Bell for a time.”

The papers never mentioned any of this. Not Dutch. Not the deaths. Only Micah made the news. He killed a family of three to hijack their car. The police shot out his tires. Now Arthur knew why. Someone gagged the reporters. Being bedfellows with a notorious gangster wasn’t the sort of publicity the cops or FBI would want.

“What do you know about Heidi McCourt?”

“I met her once. I think. Morpheus had me by the throat so I don’t remember much other than Mr. Bell threatening to cut out my tongue if I ever spoke to her again.”

“That’s because it was too loose. He didn’t want you discussing our work with her. Come to think of it, I last saw her speaking with _you_, Mr. Marston, the night that she died.”

John squinted. “You were there?”

“Of course I was—oh, that’s right. You were inebriated for much of the night.” Strauss turned back to Arthur. “I didn’t speak with Fräulein McCourt that night and but I have on several occasions prior when she was acting as a messenger while Bell was awaiting trial at Wallace Penitentiary.”

“She worked for Dutch?” Arthur exclaimed.

That would explain why Heidi kept showing up late or not at all to work and got herself fired. Traveling across state lines would’ve eaten up her time.

“Well, working isn’t right word. After the ambush, she was quite vocal about how she wanted nothing to do with Micah or the mob, but—” Strauss held up his hands and shrugged, before lacing them on his lap. “May I ask what you plan to do with that ledger?”

“I won’t be giving it into Hosea, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“What do ya mean you’re not gonna give it to Hosea?” John snapped as they walked together down a sterile hallway, blindingly white with buzzing lights and scores of windows. “Dutch can’t hurt us anymore if his Ambarino operations are lost. That’s all he has left!”

“When Dutch thought I had given the authorities the New Austin map, he nearly let you be strangled to death. He doesn’t need money to hurt others.”

“But—”

“Every time we talk to someone new the story gets more tangled.” John frowned, probably for changing the subject. “Were they a couple at the time of her death or not? I suppose she could’ve taken him back but I don’t see her getting’ over murder if that’s what broke ‘em up in the first place.”

“What kills me is that Micah’s case was let go for insufficient evidence. There were multiple witnesses! How did Dutch not question him about it?”

“Likely couldn’t hear himself think straight with how loud Micah was probably kissin’ his ass. He owes someone a huge favor for springin’ him.” Arthur stopped walking. “What if that’s why Micah’s working for Milton and Ross? Why else would he work for the police unless they had something on him? Maybe he has to do what they want or he’ll be facing the death penalty again.”

“Would they have the money or power to do that?”

“Guess I’m gonna have to find out.”

When they emerged through the front doors, both were surprised to find Sadie and Charles waiting for them. A free woman once more, the hole in her leg and the crutches under her arms didn’t slow her much, quickly joining Charles at the bottom of the stairs.

“So!” Sadie flashed a predatorial smile over her shoulder. “We heading to Rattlesnake Hollow?”

Arthur tried to think of a tactful way to discourage her. Too bad he was about as gentle as a brick through a glass window. “You’re in no shape to go O’Driscoll huntin’ again.”

“The hell I ain’t! I’m _fine_.”

“You planning to strap a pair of Tommy guns to your crutches?” Charles crossed his arms.

“Now there’s an idea,” Sadie snorted. “You boys are acting like I _died_ or something. I’m just teasin’. I know Hosea wants us to let the dust to settle.” Disgruntlement twisted her lips. “All I’m sayin’ is we could go there, lay out the place, then head on home. It’d take no time at all. It’s on the other side of state so John could get us there in, what? A half an hour?

John smiled bashfully until Charles asked, “Where _did_ you learn to drive like that?”

“Street racing.”

It wasn’t hard to picture John tearing through city streets in his youth. But how exactly would a destitute young man have been able to afford a car? Theft? “How’d you escape your youth without a criminal record, Marston?”

He scratched the back of his head. “Dumb luck?”

“Huh.” Arthur replied. “You seem to have lot of that.”

“Hope you don’t drive like that with your kid or that _pretty wife_ of yours in the car,” she teased.

John didn’t miss a beat. “Miss Roberts would run me over if I ever endangered our son like that.”

\--

“Oh my God.” Sean grasped onto Albert and Karen’s arms like he was in danger of losing his footing along the sunny boardwalk. “Just the thought of those two fuckers getting charged with stealin’ police funds. _Jesus Christ_. Someone get me a bib! I’m salivatin’ already.”

“Quit it, you’ll wrinkle the sleeve.” Karen pulled free and smoothed out the fabric of her black double breasted dress. “Boy, I could get used to this. I look like a stenographer or something.”

Even without Sean flapping his gums, their sleek outfits drew the four of them plenty of stares as they walked along the docks. Going for the idle rich look to scam their way onto the Serendipity; back in Blackwater for maintenance after months of carrying passengers along the Lannahechee. The ferry was just left of Hosea’s shipping terminal. Felt like a lifetime had passed since Arthur and John had broken in there. Two smokestacks, a wraparound view, and all three levels painted white, the Serendipity stood out and towered over its neighbors.

“They would’ve had to embezzle thousands though,” Albert said to Sean. “Surely someone would’ve noticed.”

“Let me dream a bit longer, would ya? It don’t hurt to look.”

“You’ll have to get right on it. Their last day is coming up fast, isn’t it?”

“Five days and counting, Mason!” Sean rubbed his hands together. “Got a bottle of champagne ready for it.”

Milton and Ross landing new jobs at the Bureau of Prohibition was not news Arthur was happy to return to. Be it covering up Heidi’s murder or blackmailing Micah, he had to find definitive proof of their corruption and soon. Transitioning into their new roles would only take so much time before they were back to their usual affairs. As Deputy Director and Associate Deputy Director, they would have access to far greater resources than they did with the Blackwater Police. It might be harder to nab them for corruption later on. Not to mention he didn’t want to deal with them if he couldn’t figure out a way to escape taking over the Matthews Outfit.

“Be careful how you go ‘bout it,” Arthur cautioned, eyeing Karen and discreetly tapping near his wrist. The price tag was showing and she tucked it under her lace cuff. “You can’t be sloppy. Present company excluded, cops protect their own and—”

He batted away the warning with a flick of his hand. “Sean MacGuire knows how to keep his nose clean.”

“Yeah, well he don’t know how to keep his trap shut,” Karen said. “You can’t be going around spouting out your name like that!”

Arthur shushed them both. The guard standing before the wide ramp onto the ferry stepped aside to allow a couple of mechanics on before coming forward. Spine straighter than a ruler, walk just as stiff, and lips wrinkled into a nervous frown, the young man looked in need of a drink or two.

“I’m sorry but the Serendipity isn’t open to passengers today.”

“That’s why we’re here.” Karen tilted her nose up and put on a lofty voice. “My fiancé and I are getting married soon.” She and Sean gave each other sickeningly sweet looks. “And we’re searching for somewhere special to hold the reception. We were hoping to take a quick look around without getting in anyone’s way.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, but you’ll have to call our main office to arrange a tour. We don’t just let anyone in off the streets.”

“Off the streets? _Off the_ _streets_?” Sean sputtered, muddling his way through what Arthur suspected was an attempt at a posh accent. The stubborn fool should’ve just let Albert pretend to be her fiancé. “Are you implying that my darling is some sort of harlot?”

“No, that’s not—”

“I’ve never been so insulted in all my life!” Karen stamped her foot. “I oughta slug—I mean slap you!”

“Let’s simmer down!” Albert slipped in between Karen and the guard. “Miss Cornwall, I’m sure there are far more deserving establishments in the city that would be happy to host your reception.”

“Cornwall?” You could practically hear the cash register inside the guard’s head. “Wait! Wait! Perhaps I can be…persuaded?”

“May I remind you that bribery is illegal and my client will not stoop to such lows,” Albert replied haughtily.

The guard frowned at him but kept his open palm ready until Arthur stepped forward. “W-Who are you?”

“Her older brother.” Arthur bent slightly so they were face-to-face. “If I catch you bein’ rude to my sister again, a slap will be the least of your worries.”

“What do ya even need us for when you can scare the shit outta people like that, Arthur?” Karen asked, heels clacking loud on the wooden deck as she strolled over to the railing.

“If it gets back to Milton or Ross that people were checking out the Serendipity, I’d rather they hear it was a wedding party rather than a brute with anger issues. Can you two keep up the soon-to-be-wed act? This shouldn’t take long. Ten, fifteen minutes at the most.”

“‘Course we can!” Sean’s real accent bled through his fake one. “We were born for the stage, weren’t we, my love?”

Karen made a face. “Let me do the talking.”

Arthur and Albert made sure the coast was clear before sneaking into the interior of the ship. With the kitchen and crew quarters upstairs, down here was largely meant for storage except for the lonely little room at the center for ill passengers. Little wonder why no one heard the gunshot. Aside from the fireworks masking the sound, most were probably on the uppermost deck at the stroke of midnight. Couldn’t see much of the sky through the small portholes.

After picking the lock with John’s bobby pin, Arthur opened the door. Albert patted his arm reassuringly and entered first when he hesitated. “Did they find a key on Miss McCourt’s person?”

“The coroner’s report didn’t mention one. If the killer was smart, they probably tossed it into the lake.”

He forced his legs to move. The soft blue walls bore no trace of her blood and a fat cabinet full of seasickness remedies that smelled liked ginger had been moved to block where the wall had stopped the bullet. New linens had been purchased; dark grays had replaced the old pale blankets.

“The bullet entered her left temple so the murderer had to be standing here.” Arthur stood by the bed, adjacent to the door. “Her legs were still covered by the blankets but the gunshot followed a downward trajectory so she wasn’t fully upright in bed. Probably propped up on her elbow.”

Albert wagged a finger between the bed and door. “She would’ve had to let them in. It’s too far to reach. Alcohol could’ve impaired her judgement but…”

“She trusted her murderer,” Arthur finished. “Micah’s obviously at the top of my list but Dutch and all of his top people knew her at the very least. He could’ve sent someone to take her out. Who knows how many of his people were at the party? I had no idea Strauss was there until he admitted it.”

“Do you think there’s a chance Dutch could’ve did it himself?”

“He prefers to keep his hands clean but when someone angers him enough he kills without hesitation.” Arthur leaned against the wall, knocking his fedora askew. “Guess I was hoping for a light bulb to go off.”

“One will eventually.” Albert righted his hat for him. “You always figure things out eventually.”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. “So, Albert Mason. Attorney at Law. You busy on the 27th?”

“Having the Cornwalls as clients does fill my schedule.” Albert righted his hat for him. “Perhaps I can be…persuaded?”

“Remind me to pay that kid for his silence before we leave. A former colleague of mine works at Wallace Penitentiary. He said he’d help me look into the visitation records. I want proof Milton and Ross were meeting with Micah.”

Albert lit up. “That’s near the edge of Cumberland Forest, isn’t it? Rumor has it the most magnificent majestic elk lives nearby. Oh, I’d be beside myself if I managed to get a picture of it.”

“Good thing I got you a ticket then.”

\--

“You should’ve seen him, Arthur. That face. What a beautiful man.” Tilly said with a dreamy smile. “He’s gonna be big, I know it.”

“That the new one with Norma Shearer?” She nodded. “So that’s where Karen got that accent from.”

It was just too damn hot to work. Even the clock hands seemed to move more sluggishly in the heat. As consummate professionals, Arthur and Tilly were playing dominoes on the floor of his office. Jackets discarded, sleeves rolled up, and enjoying cold beers below his ceiling fan.

“She told me about that. Apparently Sean was green with envy. All the sailors were eyeing her.”

Arthur took another sip. “If he had half a brain, he’d realize it don’t matter how many men look at her, Karen’s only got eyes for him.”

The phone rang. “Oh shoot!” Laying on her stomach, legs crossed in the air and shoes missing, it would be more of a hassle for her to scramble to her feet than him.

“You sit tight.” He went over to her desk and answered the phone. “Arthur Morgan, Private Investigator.”

“Arthur?” Molly slurred, breathless voice barely above a whisper. “Is your offer to, y-you know, get me out still on the table?”

“Of course. What’s happened? Where are you?”

“We need to talk. Not now though.” The way her tongue dragged out certain words told him she was drunk. Which made him even more worried. There was a flurry of movement. Rummaging could be heard behind her increasingly frantic breaths; phone changing hands often. “Meet me at Blackwater Station in a half hour?”

“Are you in danger?”

A door banged against the wall in the background.

“Get out!” she yelled.

“Who are you talking to?” Dutch barked out. “Give me that—”

A hand covered the receiver before the line cut out.

“Molly? Molly!”

Tilly stood in the doorway of his office, face marred with confusion. Arthur tapped the switch hook repeatedly but when they weren’t reconnected, he hung up, grabbed his keys, and went for the door. She went after him but Arthur stopped her.

“You gotta stay here in case she calls back, alright?”

“You be careful!”

Arthur did John proud and drove like the gas pedal was glued to the floor. A flurry of scenarios and questions flashed through his mind like a movie reel spinning fast enough to burst into flames. What had Dutch done to Molly? Not just at the end but what could’ve happened to send his ever loyal girlfriend packing? Why couldn’t Molly tell him where she was? Was she trying to protect him?

Two solemn chimes on the hour could barely be heard thanks to the train chugging out of Blackwater Station. Arthur weaved through the parking lot, then through the clusters inside, head swiveling in search of red hair. No luck. The few inside fanning themselves with their hands stared at him. The place wasn’t exactly bustling. He went back outside. It was hot enough to melt in the shade and his shirt clung to him like a second skin. No breeze to sway the phone wires or the trees that bordered the south side of the tracks. Arthur leaned against the black post clock. Smoked through one, two, three cigarettes, staying long past the half hour. Another train came and went.

Molly never showed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize for this cliffhanger and those that will follow over the next number of chapters.
> 
> Tilly was referring to a young Clark Gable and she's right because [A Free Soul](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Free_Soul) was his last supporting role. I saw it years ago and it's not the best pre-code film/pretty melodramatic but [Norma's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WULkuocSF7o) great in it.
> 
> Re: Swanson. As tempting as it was to have him singing about whiskey while Arthur and John were trying to extract information from him, I figured since the slow collapse of the gang is what set him straight in the game, that would apply here too. Surviving the O'Driscolls didn't hurt either.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
